I.I  1  IRARY 

:  I  IK 

University  of  California 


1 


<  vi  1-1     OF 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALS WORTH. 

Received  October,  18Q4. 
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RHYMES  OF  TRAVEL, 


BALLADS  AND   POEMS. 


BY 


BAYARD    TAYLOR, 


AUTHOR    OF    "  VIEWS    A-FOOT,      ETC. 


NEW- YORK : 
GEORGE    P.   PUTNAM,    155    BROADWAY 

LONDON:   PUTNAM'S   AMERICAN   AGENCY, 

Removed  from  Paternoster  Row  to 
J.    Chapman,    142    Strand. 

1849. 

7  IB 


nyyr- 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

George  P.   Putnam. 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New-York. 


L  e  a  v  i  t  t  ,    Trow    &    Co., 

Printers  and  Stereot.ypers, 

49  Ann-street,  N.  V. 


finscrfbeto  to 
JOHN    B.    PHILLIPS, 

OF    BOHEMIA    MANOR,    MD., 

IN    TOKEN    OF 

EARLY      FRIENDSHIP      UNBROKEN, 

AND 
EARLY    CONFIDENCE    UNBETRAYED. 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER. 

This  volume — the  first  poetical  venture  to  which  I 
have  entrusted  a  hope  of  success,  for  the  sake  of  Poetry 
alone — seems  to  require  a  few  words  of  introduction. 

In  collecting  the  effusions  of  four  or  five  years  for 
publication  in  a  form  which  has  the  semblance  of  perma- 
nence, however  much  it  may  lack  the  necessary  vital 
spirit,  I  have  been  aware  of  the  great  inequality  of  merit 
among  the  poems  chosen.  The  Rhymes  of  Travel,  which 
give  expression  to  thoughts  and  emotions  inspired  by  my 
journey  in  Europe,  are  the  earliest  I  have  thought  proper 
to  include.  They  are  faithful  records  of  my  feelings  at 
the  time,  often  noted  down  hastily  by  the  wayside,  and 
aspiring  to  no  higher  place  than  the  memory  of  some  pil- 
grim who  may,  under  like  circumstances,  look  upon  the 
same  scenes.  An  ivy  leaf  from  the  tower  where  a  hero  of 
old  history  may  have  dwelt,  or  the  simplest  weed,  growing 
over  the  dust  that  once  held  a  great  soul,  is  reverently  kept 


0  THE      AUTHOR     TO      THE     READER. 

for  the  memories  it  inherited  through  the  chance  fortune 
of  the  wind-sown  seed  ;  and  I  would  fain  hope  that  these 
rhymes  may  bear  with  them  a  like  simple  claim  to  recep- 
tion, from  those  who  have  given  me  their  company  through 
the  story  of  my  wanderings. 

In  the  Californian  Ballads  I  have  attempted  to  give  a 
poetical  expression  to  the  rude  but  heroic  physical  life  of 
the  vast  desert  and  mountain  region,  stretching  from  the 
Cordilleras  of  New  Mexico  to  the  Pacific.  This  country, 
in  the  sublime  desolation  of  its  sandy  plains  and  stony 
mountains,  streaked  here  and  there  with  valleys  of  almost 
tropical  verdure,  and  the  peculiar  character  of  its  semi- 
civilized  people,  seemed  to  afford  a  field,  in  which  the  vig- 
orous spirit  of  the  old  ballad  might  be  transplanted,  to 
revive  and  flourish  with  a  new  and  sturdy  growth.  The 
favor  with  which  some  of  these  ballads  have  been  noticed, 
on  their  anonymous  publication  in  the  Literary  World, 
encourages  me  to  hope  that  I  have  been  partly  successful. 
I  am  conscious,  at  least,  that  they  were  written  with  no 
deliberate  purpose  to  seek  a  new  field  for  poetic  effort,  but 
from  that  impulse  which  made  their  expression  a  necessity 
and  a  joy. 

For  the  imperfections  in  this  volume  I  offer  no  apology. 
That,  it  contains  some  poems  whose  selection  was  not  die- 


TITE      AUTHOR      TO     THE      READER.  7 

tated  by  my  confidence  in  their  poetic  merit,  I  freely 
confess  ;  but,  (if  the  reader  will  pardon  this  piece  of  ego- 
tism,) in  giving  to  the  world  a  volume  which  closes  the 
first  stage  of  my  experience  as  an  author,  the  wishes  of 
others  to  whom  they  had  a  pleasant  meaning,  induced  me 
to  retain  them.  For  this,  however,  I  ask  no  indulgence 
from  those  whose  province  it  is  to  direct  the  public  taste. 
Poetry  is  in  herself  too  sacred,  to  permit  the  use  of  any 
personal  considerations,  as  a  plea  for  an  imperfect  or 
unworthy  offering  at  her  altar. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

New- York,  December,  1848. 


CONTENTS 


RHYMES  OF  TRAVEL. 

PAGE. 

The  Poet's  Ambition, 15 

The  Tomb  of  Charlemagne, 17 

To  One  Afar,            .         .        .        .      ' 20 

Starlight  in  the  Odenwald, 24 

A  Song  at  Dusk, 27 

The  Crusades, 29 

The  Wayside  Dream, 3S 

Steyermark, 36 

To  a  Bavarian  Girl, 38 

In  Italy, 41 

To  My  Mother, 43 

Rome,              46 

The  Statue  in  the  Snow, 50 

The  Dearest  Image,                .                         53 

Impatience, 55 

Aspiration,             57 

1* 


10  CONTENTS. 

PICTURESQUE  BALLADS  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

PAGE. 

El  Canalo, 65 

The  Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar, 68 

Rio  Sacramento, 72 

The  Eagle  Hunter,               74 

The  Bison  Track, 77 

The  Lay  of  Las  P  almas,              80 

LIFE-TONES. 

A  Bacchic  Ode, 87 

A  Funeral  Thought, 89 

The  Angel  of  the  Soul, 91 

The  Enchanted  Knight, 95 

An  Hour, ;        ....  98 

Gautama's  Song  of  Rest, .  102 

The  Soul's  Song  of  Action, 105 

An  Autumn  Thought,            .........  108 

Upward,              HO 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Norseman's  Ride, 117 

The  Voice  of  the  Fire,     ...                  120 

A  Voice  from  Piedmont, 123 

Little  Paul, 125 

A  Requiem  in  the  North, 127 

Re-Union, 130 


CONTENTS.  11 


PAGE. 


The  Continents, 132 

The  Mountains, 137 

Freedom, 138 

Life,           .  _ 139 

Evil, .140 

The  Demon  of  the  Mirror, 141 

L'Envoi, 151 


I. 

Htjgmes  of  trawl. 

Wohl  auf,  noch  getrunken  den  funkelnden  Wein ! 
Ade  nun,  ihr  Lieben,  geschieden  muss  sein ; 
Ade  nun,  ihr  Berge,  du  vaterlich  Haus, 
Es  treibt  nach  der  Feme  mich  machtig  hinaus. 

Justinus  Kerner. 


THE    POET'S    AMBITION. 

A    THOUGHT    IN    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

No  thirst  for  power,  whose  fierce  and  stern  desire 

Leads  on  to  guilt  and  wrong, 
Moves  the  pale  monarch  of  the  deathless  Lyre  — 

The  laureled  lord  of  Song  ! 

Not  his  the  joy,  when  the  trump's  braying  tells 

Of  armies  overthrown  ; 
When  paeans  thunder  from  cathedral  bells, 

Drowning  the  captive's  groan. 

No  plaudits  from  the  crowding  myriads  rise 

Along  his  glorious  march  ; 
For  him  no  blazoned  banners  flaunt  the  skies  — 

Stands  no  triumphal  arch  ! 

But  purer,  holier,  loftier  is  the  aim 
Born  of  his  gift  divine  ; 


16  T  H  E      POET'S      AMBITION. 

His  spirit  longs  to  grasp  that  crown  of  fame, 
Whose  stars  forever  shine. 

The  love  of  man  —  the  blessing  of  the  heart 
To  which  his  bright  words  stole, 

And  breathed  the  soiace  of  his  godlike  art, 
As  to  a  brother-soul ! 

The  prayers  of  spirits,  to  whose  silent  wo 

He  gives  a  voice  sublime  — 
And  prophet-thoughts,  whose  lightning  pinions  go 

Beyond  the  shores  of  Time ! 

In  the  broad  realm  of  human  hearts  alone, 

He  holds  eternal  sway  ; 
What  king  sate  ever  on  a  prouder  throne, 

With  vassals  such  as  they  ? 

London,  1844. 


THE    TOMB    OF    CHARLEMAGNE. 

I  stood  in  that  cathedral  old,  the  work  of  kingly  power,1 

That  from  the  clustered  roofs  of  Aix  lifts  up  its  mould'ring 
tower, 

And,  like  a  legend  strange  and  rude,  speaks  of  an  earlier 
day  — 

Of  saint,  and  knight,  the  tourney's  pride  and  the  Minne- 
singer's lay  ! 

Above  me  rose  the  pillared  dome,  with  many  a  statue  grim, 
And  through  the  chancel-oriel  came  a  lustre  soft  and  dim, 
Till  dusky  shrine  and  painting  old  glowed  in  the  twilight 

wan  : 
Below  me  was  a  marble  slab  —  the  tomb  of  Charlemagne  ! 

A  burst  of  organ-music  rang  so  grandly,  sadly  slow, 
'Twas  like  an  anthem  thundered  o'er  the  dead  who  slept 
below ; 


18  THE     TOMB      OF      CHARLEMAGNE. 

And  with  the  sound,  came  thronging  round  the  stern  men 

of  that  time 
When  best  was  he  who  bravest  fought,  and  cowardice  was 

crime  ! 

I  thought  on  that  far  day,  when  he,  whose  dust  I  stood 

upon, 
Ruled  with  a  monarch's  boundless  right  the  kingdoms   he 

had  won  — 
When  rose  the  broad  Alps  in  his  realm,  and  roared  the 

Baltic's  wave  ; 
And  now  —  the  lowest  serf  might  stand,  unheeded,  on  his 

grave ! 

And  ruthless  hands  despoiled  his  dust,  attired  in  regal 
pride, 

The  crown  upon  his  fleshless  brow,  and  "  Joyeuse "  by 
his  side  — 

Whose  rusted  blade,  at  Ronceval,  flamed  in  the  hero's 
hand, 

In  answer  to  the  silver  horn  of  the  dying  Knight,  Ro- 
land ! 

I  stood  on  that  neglected  stone,  thrilled  with  the  glorious 

sound, 
While  bowed   by   many   a   holier   shrine,   the  worshipers 

around  — 


THE      TOMB      OF      CHARLEMAGNE.  19 


And  through  the  cloud  of  incense-smoke  burned  many  a 

taper  dim, 
And  called  the  priest  to  matin  prayer  —  I  could  but  think 

of  him  ! 

I  saw  the  boy  with  yellow  locks,  crowned  at  St.  Deny's 

shrine  ; 
The  emperor  in  his  purple  stole,  the  lord  of  all  the  Rhine  ; 
The  conqueror  of  a  thousand  foes,   through  battle  stern 

and  hard  — 
The  widowed  mourner  at  thy  tomb,  oh  fairest  Hildegarde  ! 

Long  pealed  the  music  of  the  choir  through  chancel-arch 
and  nave, 

As  folded  in  the  spell  of  years,  I  stood  upon  his  grave  ; 

And  when  the  morning-anthem  ceased  and  solemn  mass 
began, 

I  left  that  chapel  gray  and  old  —  the  tomb  of  Charle- 
magne ! 

Aix-la-Chapelle,  1844. 


TO    ONE    AFAR. 


The  glorious  landscape  lay  below, 

No  more  in  Fancy's  dreaming  seen  — 
But,  basking  in  the  Autumn  glow 

Stood  town  and  tower  and  forest  green  ; 
Beneath,  the  sounding  Neckar  rolled 

Through  hills  which  bore  him  purple  wine, 
And  glimmered  like  a  chain  of  gold, 

Through  the  dim  haze,  the  winding  Rhine  ! 
In  breezeless  rest,  the  fisher's  sail 

Gleamed  idly  downward  with  the  tide. 
And  songs  of  peasants  in  the  vale 

Came  faintly  up  the  mountain  side  : 
In  the  blue  dimness  of  the  air, 

A  vague,  sweet  sense  of  lingering  sound, 
Like  echoes  of  the  chimes  of  prayer, 

Hallowed  the  beauty-haunted  ground  — 


T  O      0  N  E       A  FAR.  21 

And,  through  the  day's  descending  hours, 
Lulled  by  that  faint,  ethereal  strain, 

I  lay  amid  the  heather  flowers 
Listening  its  echoes  in  my  brain  ; 

While,  as  the  slow  vibrations  died, 
My  soul  went  back  the  Past  on  Memory's  lapsing  tide. 

ii. 

Again  my  timid  childhood  came, 

And  boyhood's  struggling,  doubt  and  tears, 
Where  one  dear  hope  illumed  thy  name, 

Beloved  of  my  early  years  ! 
And  trembled  o'er  the  soul's  deep  chords 

Sweet  memories  of  their  earliest  tone — ■ 
The  music  of  thy  gentle  words, 

The  deep  devotion  of  my  own  ! 
I  heard  thy  tender,  low  replies, 

Beside  the  rose's  breathing  bower, 
When  o'er  us  hung  the  moonlit  skies 

And  angels  blest  our  trysting  hour  ! 
I  felt  the  dewy  winds,  whose  kiss 

Cooled  the  quick  pulses  of  my  brow, 
When  thrilling  with  the  voiceless  bliss 

Of  being  loved  by  such  as  thou  — 
When  o'er  the  cloudy  doubts  above 
Stood  broad  and  bright  the  glorious  rainbow  —  Love  ! 


22  TO     ONE      AFAR, 


The  hope  which  yearned  for  thee  afar, 

The  boyish  worship,  treasured  long, 
Dawned  on  my  heart  —  a  morning  star 

Before  the  rising  orb  of  Song  ! 
And  the  lone  stream  and  solemn  grove 

That  knew  my  spirit's  gloom  and  glee, 
Learned  the  dear  secret  of  my  love, 

Till  all  their  music  spoke  of  thee  !     - 
On  the  calm  midnight's  breezy  tide 

Came  the  sweet  breath  of  flowers  afar ; 
The  sentries  of  the  forest  sighed  — 

On  the  stream's  bosom  throbbed  the  star  ! 
Low  murmurs  from  the  holy  skies 

Haunted,  like  song,  the  dreamy  air, 
And  from  my  heart,  the  fond  replies 

Awoke  prophetic  echoes  there  ; 
For  boyhood's  prayer  foretold  the  hour, 
When  with  fulfillment  came  the  blessing  and  the  power  ! 


IV. 


I  know  not  how  the  world  may  love  — 
How.  in  a  thousand  hearts,  the  fire 

May  seem  descended  from  above, 
And  yet  in  ashy  gloom  expire  ; 


TO      ONE      AFAR.  23 

How,  in  the  passion -hour  of  youth, 

The  lip  may  speak  its  holiest  vow, 
Yet  shadows  dim  the  spirit's  truth 

And  pride  and  coldness  change  the  brow  ; 
I  only  know,  how,  from  the  mist 

Of  childhood's  dreams,  thine  image  grew 

A  flower  by  Passion's  sunbeams  kissed 

And  fed  by  Hope's  perpetual  dew  ! 
I  only  know  how  dear  a  worth 

This  restless  being  wins  through  thee, 
Within  whose  sunshine,  o'er  the  earth, 

All  beauty  lives  eternally  ! 
And  if  my  lays,  in  after-time, 

Should  win  men's  love,  —  the  holiest  fame ; 
If  Sorrow's  gifts  of  sweetest  rhyme 

Should  brighten  round  my  humble  name 

Thy  soul  will  light  my  footsteps  on, 

Up  the  long  path  of  toil  and  tears, 
And  share  with  me  the  glory  won 

Beloved  of  my  early  years  ! 

Heidelberg,  1844. 


STARLIGHT    IN    THE    ODENWALD.5 

Upon  the  mountain's  rugged  crest 

There  lingers  still  a  glow, 
But  twilight's  gathering  gloom  has  drest 

The  valleys  far  below  ; 
No  wild  wind  sways  the  mountain  pine, 

No  breeze  bends  down  the  flower, 
,     And  dim  and  faint  the  star-beams  shine 

Upon  the  vesper  hour. 

Here,  in  the  fading  sunset  light, 

I  breathe  the  upper  air, 
And  hear  the  low,  sad  voice  of  Night, 

Inviting  Earth  to  prayer  ! 
Still  deeper  through  the  wide  profound 

The  solemn  shadows  fall, 
And  rest  upon  the  hills  around 

Like  Nature's  funeral  pall. 


STARLIGHT      IN      THE      ODENWALD.  25 

Now  comes  to  break  the  breathless  spell, 

In  blended  evening-hymn, 
The  chime  of  many  a  distant  bell 

From  valleys  deep  and  dim  ; 
And  as  they  fall,  the  warder-star 

That  guards  the  twilight  pale, 
Looks  o'er  the  eastern  hills  afar 

And  dons  his  silver  mail. 


The  shadows  deepen,  as  I  stand  — 

The  rosy  glow  is  gone, 
And  westward,  towards  my  native  land. 

The  sunset  marches  on  ! 
Ye  stars,  with  whose  familiar  glance 

My  thoughts  are  mingling  free, 
Shine,  glimmering  o'er  the  wide  expanse, 

And  bear  them  home  for  me  ! 

Still  all  is  breathless,  as  in  prayer, 

But  to  my  spirit-ear 
Kind  voices  float  upon  the  air  — 

Fond  eyes  are  beaming  near. 
The  love,  whose  pinions  never  rest, 

Soars,  constant,  o'er  the  sea, 
And  by  the  thrill  within  my  breast 

I  know  they  speak  of  me  ! 


26  STARLIGHT      IN      THE      ODENWALD. 

The  gentle  spirit  of  the  hour 

Melts  in  the  dew  of  tears, 
And  yielding  to  its  spell  of  power 

I  muse  on  vanished  years, 
Till  through  the  gloom,  no  more  is  heard 

The  solemn  evening-chime, 
And  mourn  the  pine-boughs,  faintly  stirred, 

The  hurrying  march  of  Time. 

Germany,  1844. 


A    SONG    AT    DUSK. 


Oh,  gloomy  up  the  welkin's  arch 

The  night  in  clouds  comes  striding  on, 
And  gathers  Time,  on  tireless  march, 

Another  day  to  myriads  gone  ! 
The  sun,  that  in  his  gray  robe  drest, 

Stole  down  the  veiled  and  dark'ning  sky, 
Yet  shines  behind  the  clouded  West, 

Where  the  green  hills  of  childhood  lie  ; 
My  heart  goes  with  him  o'er  the  sea, 
To  gaze,  with  all  his  beams,  on  thee  ! 


ii 


Turbid  and  dark  with  melted  snows. 
The  restless  waters  by  me  sweep 


28  A      SONG      AT      DUSK.         • 

From  the  far  fountains  whence  they  rose. 
Impatient,  to  their  parent  deep  ; 

But  when  the  chafing  shores  are  gone 
And  the  blue  ocean-wastes  expand, 

Perchance  some  storm  will  bear  them  on 
To  break  upon  my  Fatherland  ! 

With  them  careering,  fast  and  free, 

My  heart  speeds  homeward,  love,  to  thee  ! 


in. 


I  hear  the  winds  of  evening  moan 

Through  ivied  towers,  decayed  and  old, 
Waving  their  tresses  o'er  the  stone 

In  desolation,  doubly  cold  ; 
Yet  when  o'er  thousand  leagues  they  blow, 

Beyond  this  twilight's  dusky  line, 
Their  wings  may  stoop  to  waken  low 

The  music  of  our  try  sting  pine, 
And,  sighing  with  them  in  the  tree, 
My  heart  would  whisper,  love,  to  thee. 

Frankfort,  Germany,  1845. 


THE    CRUSADES. 

The  red-cross  banners  moulder  here  to  ashes,3 

And  Godfrey's  falchion  rusts  in  dull  repose, 
That  pierced  the  war-cloud  with  its  crimson  flashes, 

And  clove  the  helmets  of  his  swarthy  foes  ; 
These  standards  once  led  Europe^s  knights  undaunted, 

Their  folds  upon  the  winds  of  Syria  flung, 
As  over  plains  by  holy  memories  haunted 

Their  hymns  of  faith  the  pilgrim-warriors  sung. 

That  breastplate  once,  on  Hermon's  hallowed  mountain, 

With  dews  from  soft  Judean  skies  was  wet ; 
Those  plumes  have  waved  beside  Bethesda's  fountain, 

And  stood  with  Godfrey  on  Mount  Olivet ! 
And  once  the  banners,  now  all  rent  and  shivered, 

Waved  on  the  holy  walls  from  Moslems  won, 
Or  by  the  Lion-hearted  king  have  quivered, 

Upon  the  sands  of  fated  Ascalon  ! 


30  T  HE      C  R  U  S  A  1)  E  S  . 

The  dreams  of  Romance,  that  in  days  departed 

Thrilled  through  my  boyish  soul,  come  back  again, 
As  when  the  blood  unto  my  brow  hath  started 

At  thought  of  battle  on  the  Syrian  plain  — 
When  Richard's  glory  fired  my  young  ambition, 

In  sweeping  charge  to  break  th'  embattled  line, 
And  oft  I  saw,  in  dream-enraptured  vision, 

The  deep-blue  heaven  that  burns  o'er  Palestine  ! 

They  were  but  dreams  ;  yet  this  old  blade  has  broken 

The  spell  that  bound  them  in  the  wondrous  Past, 
For,  long  ere  this,  had  other  voices  spoken, 

Nor  leaped  my  heart  unto  that  clarion-blast. 
All  dust  and  ruin,  let  those  ages  moulder 

Like  these  rent  banners  crumbling  on  the  wall  ; 
The  Earth  learns  wisdom  as  she  waxes  older  — 

The  proudest  glory  of  the  Past  shall  fall ! 

Not  for  the  land,  where  dwelt  the  Meek  and  Lowly, 

Shall  knights  anointed  crowd  the  battle-sod. 
But  Earth  itself,  which  God  created  holy, 

And  now  so  long  by  unbelievers  trod  ! 
For  Earth,  where,  Freedom's  sepulchre  profaning, 

A  brood  of  tyrants  laugh  at  Mankind's  loss, 
They  vow  to  fight,  till  Wrong's  pale  crescent,  waning, 

Forever  vield  to  Freedom's  hallowed  cross  ! 


THE      CRUSADES.  31 

\ 

No  more  regret  o'er  chivalry  departed  — 

No  dreams  of  battles  on  Judea's  strand  ! 
The  world  has  need  of  many  a  Lion-hearted, 

And  Truth  is  gathering  her  Crusader-band. 
I  seize  the  blade  the  lofty  cause  will  hallow. 

And  swing  the  banner  in  the  light  of  morn, 
Through  the  long  march  of  Life  the  cross  to  follow, 

Which  martyred  Freedom's  holy  hands  have  borne  ! 

Oh  !  when  for  ages  her  Crusade  has  breasted 

Oppression's  armies  o'er  the  groaning  Earth, 
When  from  the  foe  her  sepulchre  is  wrested, 

And  the  raised  tombstone  lets  the  captive  forth, 
Will  she  arise,  in  beauty  such  as  never 

Dawned  on  the  Poet's  most  ecstatic  dream  — 
A  blessing  that  the  soul  will  clasp  forever  — 

A  world  renewed  in  God's  eternal  beam  ! 

Vienna,  1845. 


THE    WAYSIDE    DREAM. 

The  deep  and  lordly  Danube 

Goes  winding  far  below  ; 
I  see  the  white-walled  hamlets 

Amid  his  vineyards  glow, 
And  southward  through  the  ether  shine 

The  Styrian  hills  of  snow  ! 

O'er  many  a  league  of  landscape 
Sleeps  the  warm  haze  of  noon  ; 

The  wooing  winds  come  freighted 
With  fragrant  tales  of  June, 

And  down  amid  the  corn  and  flowers 
I  hear  the  water's  tune. 

The  meadow-lark  is  singing, 

As  if  it  still  were  morn  ; 
Sounds  throng]  1  the  dark  pine-forest 

The  hunter's  dreamy  horn, 


THE      WAYSIDE      DREAM.  33 

And  the  shy  cuckoo's  plaining  note 
Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn.4 

I  watch  the  cloud-armada 

Go  sailing  up  the  sky, 
Lulled  by  the  murmuring  mountain-grass, 

Upon  whose  bed  I  lie, 
And  the  faint  sound  of  noonday  chimes 

That  in  the  distance  die  ! 

A  warm  and  drowsy  sweetness 

Is  stealing  o'er  my  brain  ; 
I  see  no  more  the  Danube 

Sweep  through  his  royal  plain  — 
I  hear  no  more  the  peasant  girls 

Singing  amid  the  grain  ! 

Soft,  silvery  wings,  a  moment 

Seem  resting  on  my  brow  ; 
Again  I  hear  the  water, 

But  its  voice  is  deeper  now, 
And  the  mocking-bird  and  oriole 

Are  singing  on  the  bough  ! 

The  elm  and  linden  branches 
Droop  close  and  dark  o'erhead, 


34  THE      WAYSIDE      DREAM. 

And  the  foaming  forest-brooklet. 

Leaps  down  its  rocky  bed  ; 
Be  still,  my  heart  !  the  seas  are  passed 

The  paths  of  home  I  tread ! 


The  showers  of  creamy  blossoms 

Are  on  the  linden  spray, 
And  down  the  clover-meadow 

They  heap  the  scented  hay, 
And  glad  winds  toss  the  forest  leaves, 

All  the  bright  summer  day. 

Old  playmates  !  bid  me  welcome 

Amid  your  brother-band  ; 
Give  me  the  old  affection  — 

The  glowing  grasp  of  hand  ! 
I  worship  no  more  the  realms  of  old  — 

Here  is  my  Fatherland  ! 

Come  hither,  gentle  maiden. 

Who  weep'st  in  tender  joy  ! 
The  rapture  of  thy  presence 

O'ercomes  the  world's  annoy, 
And  calms  the  wild  and  throbbing  heart. 

Which  warms  the  wandering  boy. 


THE      WAYSIDE      DREAM.  35 

In  many  a  mountain  fastness,  — 

By  many  a  river's  foam, 
And  through  the  gorgeous  cities, 

'Twas  loneliness  to  roam  ; 
For  the  sweetest  music  in  my  heart 

Was  the  olden  songs  of  home  ! 

Ah  !  glen  and  grove  are  vanished, 

And  friends  have  faded  now  ! 
The  balmy  Styrian  breezes 

Are  blowing  on  my  brow, 
And  sounds  again  the  cuckoo's  call 

From  the  forest's  inmost  bough. 

Veiled  is  the  heart's  glad  vision  — 

The  wings  of  Fancy  fold ; 
I  rise  and  journey  onward, 

Through  valleys  green  and  old, 
Where  the  far,  white  Alps  reveal  the  morn 

And  keep  the  sunset's  gold  ! 


STEYERMARK. 

In  Steyermark  —  green  Steyermark, 

The  fields  are  bright  and  the  forests  dark  — 

Bright  with  the  maids  that  bind  the  sheaves. 

Dark  with  the  solemn  arch  of  leaves  ! 

Voices  and  streams  and  sweet  bells  chime 

Over  the  land,  in  the  harvest-time, 

And  the  blithest  songs  of  the  finch  and  lark 

Are  heard  in  the  orchards  of  Steyermark. 

In  Steyermark  —  old  Steyermark, 

The  mountain  summits  are  white  and  stark  ; 

The  rough  winds  furrow  their  trackless  snow, 

But  the  mirrors  of  crystal  are  smooth  below  ; 

The  stormy  Danube  clasps  the  wave 

That  downward  sweeps  with  the  Drave  and  Save. 

And  the  Euxine  is  whitened  with  many  a  bark, 

Freighted  with  ores  of  Steyermark  ! 


STEYERWARK. 

In  Steyermark  —  rough  Steyermark, 
The  anvils  ring  from  dawn  till  dark  ; 
The  molten  streams  of  the  furnace  glare, 
Blurring  with  crimson  the  midnight  air  ; 
The  lusty  voices  of  forgemen  chord. 
Chanting  the  ballad  of  "  Siegfried's  Sword," 
While  ponderous  hammers  the  chorus  mark  — 
And  this  is  the  music  of  Steyermark  ! 

In  Steyermark  —  dear  Steyermark, 
Hearts  are  glad  as  the  soaring  lark : 
There  men  are  framed  in  the  manly  mould 
Of  their  stalwart  sires,  in  the  times  of  old. 
And  the  sunny  blue  of  the  Styrian  sky 
Grows  soft  in  the  timid  maiden's  eye, 
When  love  descends  with  the  twilight  dark, 
In  the  beechen  groves  of  Steyermark. 

In  Steyermark  —  brave  Steyermark, 
The  flame  of  Freedom  has  left  a  spark, 
Whose  lingering  glow,  in  her  rudest  glen, 
Is  kept  alive  by  the  iron  men  ! 
Ere  long,  the  slaves  of  a  tyrant's  breath 
Shall  be  driven  beyond  the  Hills  of  Death,5 
And  the  beacon-snows  of  her  mountains  mark 
The  barriers  of  ransomed  Steyermark  ! 


37 


TO   A    BAVARIAN    GIRL. 

Thou,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daughter, 

Art  a  shape  of  joy, 
Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

With  thy  brother-boy  ; 
In  thy  day-dream  fondly  pressing, 

Oft,  his  ringlets  down, 
While  beneath  the  sun's  caressing, 

Glows  thy  cheek  of  brown. 

All  the  kindly  thoughts  beguiling 

Hours  of  idle  rest, 
Ever  tune  thy  lips  to  smiling, 

And  to  love,  thy  breast. 
Never  grief  for  dear  vows  broken 

Drooped  thy  tearful  lid, 
Never  words  of  love  unspoken 

In  thy  bosom  hid  ! 


TO      A      BAVARIAN      GIRL.  39 

Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland, 
While  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fatherland  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine, 
And  where'er  the  green  waves  shiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine  ! 


Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes, 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie, 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  the  southern  sky  ; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  heart  should  fear, 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden, 

Startle  not  the  ear  ! 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  fountain's  brim, 
Or  in  sunny  harvest-weather, 

With  the  reapers  trim  ; 
Where  the  Autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  the  vintage-hills  — 
Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  turning, 

In  the  ancient  mills  ; 


40  T  O     A      BAVARIAN      G  I  R  L . 

Where  from  ruined  robber-towers 

Hangs  the  ivy's  hair, 
And  the  sweet-lipped  foxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair  — 
Every  where,  without  thy  presence, 

Would  the  sunshine  fail, 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants  ! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale  ! 

Munich,  1845. 


IN    ITALY. 

Dear  Lillian,  all  I  wished  is  won  ! 
I  sit  beneath  Italia's  sun. 
Where  olive  orchards  gleam  and  quiver 
Along  the  banks  of  Arno's  river. 

Through  laurel  leaves,  the  dim  green  light 
Falls  on  my  forehead  as  I  write, 
And  the  sweet  chimes  of  vesper,  ringing, 
Blend  with  the  contadina's  singing. 

Rich  is  the  soil  with  Fancy's  gold  ; 
The  stirring  memories  of  old 
Rise  thronging  in  my  haunted  vision, 
And  wake  my  spirit's  young  ambition. 

But,  as  the  radiant  sunsets  close 
Above  Val  d'Arno's  bowers  of  rose, 
My  soul  forgets  the  olden  glory 
And  deems  our  love  a  dearer  story. 


42  IN      ITALY. 

Thy  words,  in  Memory's  ear,  outchime 
The  music  of  the  Tuscan  rhyme; 
Thou  standest  here  —  the  gentle-hearted 
Amid  the  shades  of  bards  departed  ! 

Their  garlands  of  immortal  bay, 

I  see  before  thee  fade  away. 

And  turn  from  Petrarch's  passion-glances 

To  my  own  dearer  heart-romances  ! 

Sad  is  the  opal  glow  that  fires 
The  midnight  of  the  cypress  spires, 
And  cold  the  scented  wind  that  closes 
The  hearts  of  bright  Etruscan  roses. 

The  fair  Italian  dream  1  chased, 
A  single  thought  of  thee  effaced  ; 
For  the  true  clime  of  song  and  sun 
Lies  in  the  heart  which  mine  hath  won ! 

Florence,  1845. 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 

The  wind  is  cold,  and  dark  the  sky 

That  bends,  dear  mother !  o'er  thy  child, 

And  cloudy  masses,  wild  and  high, 
In  the  night-heaven  are  piled. 

And,  sweeping  with  a  mournful  sound, 
I  hear  the  swift  wings  of  the  blast, 

Whose  rainy  cisterns,  poured  around, 
Fall  drearily  and  fast. 

Scarce  through  the  midnight's  groaning  deep 
The  glimmering  lights  of  Florence  shine, 

And  wintry  gusts,  incessant,  sweep 
The  shrouded  Appenine. 

I  breathe  not  Europe's  air  to-night : 

Gone  is  the  pomp  Day  spreads  around  — 

Lost  are  the  vales  and  seas  of  light 
In  storm  and  mingling  sound  ! 


44  TO      MY      MOTHER. 

Loved  scenes,  amid  the  gloom  are  near  ; 

I  hear  the  rush  of  well-known  floods  ; 
The  rattling  of  the  rain  I  hear, 

Through  gray,  primeval  woods. 

I  stand,  amid  the  beating  blast, 

Where  all  the  haunts  of  boyhood  stand  ; 

To-night  the  sea's  wide  waste  is  passed  — 
I  walk  my  native  land  ! 

The  tide  of  years  rolls  backward  now, 
Dear  mother  !  and  I  seem  to  feel 

The  glow  of  childhood  o'er  my  brow 
And  through  my  bosom  steal. 

This  night  of  storm  recalls  the  hour 
I  clung  for  safety  to  thy  side, 

When  shadows  of  the  thunder-shower 
Hunsr  o'er  the  meadows  wide. 


i^ 


I  feel  that  solemn  joy  again, 

Which  filled  my  soul  in  autumn  hours, 
When  forest-leaves  fell  like  this  rain 

And  hid  the  dying  flowers. 

1  seek  the  window,  still,  to  see 

How  the  wet  boughs  by  storms  are  tost, 


TO     MY    MOTHER.  45 

That  down  the  fields  go  drearily, 
Till  all  the  woods  are  lost. 

Beneath  the  sheltered  beechen  copse 

I  couch  on  mosses,  warm  and  soft, 
Or,  lulled  by  beat  of  myriad  drops, 

Dream  in  the  dusky  loft. 

Those  days  shall  be  again  no  more  ; 

I  walk  amid  the  world  of  men, 
And  childhood's  soul  must  learn  a  lore 

It  ne'er  foreboded  then. 

But  in  the  storm  and  strife,  its  wing 
Shall  find  thy  love  a  sheltering  bough, 

And  there  with  holier  trust  shall  cling 
To  all  it  worships  now. 

Florence,  1845. 


R  O  M  E  . 


Wreck  of  the  fallen  world  ! 

Ghost  of  the  mighty  Past ! 
Planet,  that,  crashing  hurled, 

Fell  from  its  orbit  vast  — 
How  have  the  later  spheres 

Rolled  o'er  thy  ruined  home 
How  have  a  thousand  years 

Scattered  thy  glory,  Rome  ! 
Prone,  like  a  godlike  form, 
Stripped  by  the  spoiling  worm, 
Wasted  by  wind  and  storm, 

Lieth  thy  greatness,  now  ! 
And  in  thy  rifled  grave, 
Washed  by  the  Tiber's  wave, 
The  foot  of  the  meanest  slave 

Tramples  thy  brow  ! 


ROME. 


II. 


47 


Shadows  of  centuries  glide 

Voiceless,  around  the  scene  — 
Phantoms  of  power  and  pride, 

Gazing  with  mournful  mien. 
Temple  and  tomb  and  arch 

Shattered  and  lonely  stand  ; 
Rent  by  the  Vandal's  march  — 

Spoiled  by  the  robber's  hand  ! 
Through  the  lone  Flavian  hall 
Beasts  of  the  desert  crawl, 
And  on  the  Caesar's  wall 

Ivy  and  brambles  grow  ; 
Relics  of  temples  lay 
Heaped  by  the  Appian  way  — 
Altars  to  dull  Decay, 

Mouldering  slow ! 


in. 


Yet,  'mid  the  waifs  of  Time 
Lingers  the  fame  of  old, 

Calling  with  voice  sublime 
Out  from  its  temple's  mould  ! 


48  ROME. 


What  though  the  pleiad  hills 

Look  on  a  fettered  land  — 
Slaves  by  the  Sabine  rills  — 

Slaves  on  the  Tyrrhene  strand  — 
Still  doth  thine  empire  last, 
Ghost  of  a  godlike  Past ! 
Still  is  the  broad  world  cast 

Under  thy  silent  sway  ; 
Though  in  the  flood  of  years 
Vanished  both  realms  and  spheres. 
Thine  'mid  the  blood  and  tears 

Passed  not  away  ! 


IV. 


Viewless,  yet  potent  still 

Reigneth  the  old  renown, 
Throned  on  the  classic  hill  — 

Crowned  with  the  deathless  crown. 
There,  at  its  shrine  adore 

Breathless,  the  sons  of  Art ; 
Led  by  the  laws  of  yore, 

States  into  being  start. 
Bards  from  a  Virgil  caught 
Germs  of  undying  thought  — 
Thunders  that  Tully  wrought 


ROME.  49 


Burst  upon  tyrants  now  ! 
Realm  of  the  Living  Dead, 
Reign  till  by  Freedom  led, 
Empires  o'er  earth  shall  spread, 

Greater  than  thou  ! 


The  Pantheon,  Rome,  1846. 


THE    STATUE    IN    THE    SNOW 

Numb  and  chill  the  Savoyard  wandered 
By  the  banks  of  frozen  Seine,6 

Oft,  to  cheer  his  sinking  spirit, 

Singing  low  some  mountain  strain. 

But,  beside  the  wintry  river, 
Rose  the  songs  of  green  Savoy 

Sadder  than  on  Alpine  summits, 
Sung  by  many  a  shepherd-boy  ! 

From  the  bleak  and  distant  Vosges 
Swept  the  snowy  whirlwind  down, 

Flinging  wide  his  shifting  mantle 
Over  slope  and  meadow  brown. 

Like  a  corpse,  the  silent  landscape 

Lay  all  stark  and  icy  there, 
And  a  chill  and  ghostly  terror 

Seemed  to  load  the  leaden  air. 


THE   STATUE   IN   THE   SNOW.         51 

Still  that  shivering  boy  went  forward, 
Though  his  heart  within  him  died, 

When  the  dreary  night  was  closing 
Dull  around  the  desert  wide. 

Through  the  desolate  northern  twilight 

To  his  home-sick  pining,  rose 
Visions  of  the  flashing  glaciers, 

Lifted  in  sublime  repose. 

Horns  of  Alp-herds  rang  in  welcome, 
And  his  mother  kissed  her  boy  !  — 

Back  his  bounding  heart  was  hurried 
From  the  vales  of  dear  Savoy  ! 

For,  amid  the  sinking  darkness, 

Colder,  chillier,  blew  the  snows, 
Till  but  faint  and  moaning  whispers 

From  his  stiffening  lips  arose. 

Then,  beside  the  pathway  kneeling, 

Folded  he  his  freezing  hands, 
While  the  blinding  snows  were  drifted 

Like  the  desert's  lifted  sands. 

As  in  many  an  old  cathedral, 

Curtained  round  with  solemn  gloom, 


52  THE      STATUE      IN     T  H  E    S  N  O  W  . 

One  may  see  a  marble  cherub 
Kneeling  on  a  marble  tomb  ! 

With  his  face  to  Heaven  upturning, 
For  the  dead  he  seems  to  pray, 

While  the  organ  o'er  him  thunders 
And  the  incense  curls  away. 

Thus  he  knelt,  all  pale  and  icy, 

When  the  storm  at  midnight  passed, 

And  the  silver  lamps  of  heaven 
Burned  above  the  pausing  blast. 

In  that  starry-roofed  cathedral 
Knelt  the  cherub  form  in  prayer, 

While  the  smoke  from  snowy  censers 
Drifted  upward  through  the  air. 

Though  no  organ's  deep  vibration 
Shook  the  winds  that  lingered  near, 

Think  ye  not  the  hymns  of  angels 
Charmed  as  well  his  dying  ear  ? 

Fans,  181H. 


THE    DEAREST    IMAGE. 

I've  wandered  through  the  golden  lands 
Where  Art  and  Beauty  blended  shine  — 

Where  features  limned  by  painters'  hands 
Beam  from  the  canvass  made  divine, 

And  many  a  god  in  marble  stands, 
With  soul  in  every  breathing  line ; 

And  forms  the  world  has  treasured  long 

Within  me  stirred  the  streams  of  Song. 

Oh  !  proudly  o'er  the  spirit  came 
The  fervent  rapture  they  inspired, 

As  with  my  feelings  all  on  flame 

I  worshiped  what  the  world  admired, 

While  flashes  from  those  orbs  of  fame 
The  soul  with  mutual  ardor  fired, 

Till  Beauty's  smile  and  Glory's  star 

Seemed  to  its  grasp  no  more  afar  ! 


54  THE      DEAREST      IMAGE. 

Yet,  brighter  than  those  radiant  dreams 
Linked  with  a  fame  that  never  dies  — 

Where  more  than  earthly  beauty  beams 
In  sibyls'  lips  and  angels'  eyes, 

One  image,  like  the  moonlight,  seems 
Between  them  and  my  heart  to  rise, 

And  from  its  dearer,  holier  ray, 

The  stars  of  Genius  fade  away  ! 

I  turn  from  paintings  rich  and  rare, 
And  life  compelled  in  stone  to  dwell, 

To  gaze  on  Memory's  picture  fair, 
Whose  lines  I  know  so  fondly  well ; 

The  touch  of  Beauty  lingers  there, 

And  Truth,  with  more  than  Beauty's  spell 

And  though  the  mind  may  worship  Art, 

That  dearer  image  fills  the  heart. 

London,  1846. 


IMPATIENCE. 

Lift  up  your  heavy  wings, 
Ye  boding  shadows,  that  upon  me  rest  ! 

Let  but  a  wave  from  Morn's  o'erflowing  springs 
Steal  in  upon  the  bound  and  struggling  breast, 
That  like  a  half-fledged  bird,  impatient  sings, 
Beating  its  weary  nest ! 

Is't  not  enough  to  go 
Unknown,  and  scorned  perhaps,  amid  the  throng  — 
The  curse  of  want,  twin  with  mistrust,  to  know, 
That  mocks  the  pride  of  ever-soaring  song, 
And  drags  the  soul  revolting  down,  to  grow 
Familiarized  with  wrong  ? 

Is't  not  enough  to  feel 
The  spirit's  manhood  made  a  thing  of  scorn  ? 
To  conquer  Pride's  restraining  voice,  and  kneel 


56  IMPATIENCE. 

With  abject  lip  before  the  meaner  born,  — 
But  must  the  gathered  shadows  still  conceal 
The  mounting  rays  of  morn  ? 

When  mind,  and  heart,  and  soul 
Thrill,  tremble  with  their  new-awakened  might, 

'Tis  hard  to  view  afar  the  shining  goal 
And  grope  beneath  in  slow-receding  night ; 
But  harder  yet,  when  hostile  fates  control 
Life's  common  beams  of  light. 

To  feel  that  God-given  power 
Acknowledged,  known  at  last,  would  calm  the  brain, 

And  for  the  world,  the  bright  and  lavish  dower 
Of  thoughts,  long-hoarded,  were  not  given  in  vajn  ; 
But  oh,  how  long  must  clouds,  low-brooding,  lower, 
And  noteless  rise  the  strain  ? 

London,  1846. 


ASPIRATION. 

Glorious  Deep  !  on  the  swell  of  thy  surges 
My  soul  from  the  night  of  its  boding  emerges, 
Lifting  its  front  to  Life's  sorrows,  unveering  — 
Boldly  as  thou  to  the  mad  wind's  careering  ! 

The  Past  and  its  burdens  from  memory  I  sever, 
Buried  on  shores  that  have  vanished  forever  ! 
My  soul  gathers  nerve  as  the  billows  grow  frantic  : 
There's  strength  in  thy  heaving,  oh  stormy  Atlantic ! 

Throned  on  thy  waters,  in  proud  exultation, 
I  see  the  dim  land  of  the  Mind's  new  creation  ; 
Looming  sublime  as  a  cloud-hidden  summit, 
That  stands  in  an  ocean  unsounded  by  plummet  ! 

Oh,  for  a  place  on  that  mount  of  the  spirit, 
Feeling  the  breath  of  Eternity  near  it  — 
Walking  with  bards  through  the  spaces  Elysian, 
Where  God  only  baffles  their  grandeur  of  vision  ! 

On  the  Atlantic. 

3* 


NOTES. 


(')  I  stood  in  that  cathedral  old,  the  work  of  kingly  power. — Page  19. 

The  Cathedral  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  was  built  by  Charlemagne,  from  796 
to  804,  and  after  his  death  a  vault  under  the  centre  of  the  dome  received 
his  remains.  When  this  was  opened,  in  1165,  by  order  of  the  Emperor 
Friedrich  I,  his  body  was  found  seated  on  a  chair  of  white  marble,  with  a 
sceptre  in  his  hand  and  his  good  sword  "  Joyeuse "  by  his  side.  His 
crown,  sword,  and  ivory  hunting-horn,  which  is  only  less  celebrated  than 
that  of  his  nephew,  the  paladin  Roland,  are  still  preserved  in  an  apartment 
adjoining  the  choir. 

(2)  Starlight  in  the  Odenwald.— Page  24. 

The  Odenwald,  or  Forest  of  Odin,  one  of  the  loneliest  and  wildest 
mountain  districts  of  Germany,  is  little  known  to  foreign  tourists.  Lying 
eastward  of  the  celebrated  road  from  Frankfort  to  Heidelberg,  a  wooded 
chain  of  lofty  hills  separates  it  from  the  great  plain  of  the  Rhine,  and  the 
Main  and  Neckar  rivers,  frequented  in  summer  for  the  picturesque  beauty 
of  their  scenery,  only  touch  its  eastern  and  southern  boundaries.  In  its 
deep,  secluded  valleys,  threaded  by  the  clearest  of  streams  and  overhung 
by  mountains  of  pine  where  the  deer  and  wild  boar  are  still  hunted  by  the 
Counts  of  Erbach,  dwell  a  rude  and  simple  people,  who  retain  with  little 
change  the  customs  of  three  centuries  past,  and  preserve  a  sincere  faith 
in  the  traditions  of  former  times.  Among  these  hills  are  the  crumbling 
ruins  of  Snellert  and  Rodenstein,  between  which  the  Wild  Huntsman  is 
still  chased  by  his  pack  of  demon  hounds,  at  the  approach  of  war.     Here 


(')<)  NOTES. 

also  is  the  Giant's  Column,  a  massive  relic  of  the  old  Teuton  races,  buried 
in  a  wild  wood,  at  the  foot  of  the  "  Sea  of  Rocks."  It  was  on  the  top 
of  the  Musau  Height,  a  lonely  ridge  which  the  author  crossed  at  nightfall, 
that  the  poem  was  composed. 

(3)  The  red-cross  banners  moulder  here  to  ashes. — Page  29- 
In  the  Imperial  Armory  at  Vienna,  are  still  to  be  seen  the  hat,  sword, 
and  breast-plate  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  the  Crusader-king  of  Jerusalem, 
and  the  tattered  fragments  of  the  banners  planted  by  his  knights  on  the 
walls  of  the  Holy  City.  Some  of  the  shreds,  cut  by  lances  and  moulder- 
ing away  by  age,  retain  outlines  of  the  Red  Cross  and  the  Virgin  and 
Child. 

(4)  Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn. — Page  33. 

The  cuckoo  sings  in  the  deepest  and  darkest  shade  of  the  woods,  and 
though  its  mournful  note  is  heard  all  day  long,  the  bird  itself  is  rarely  seen. 
There  is  a  custom  among  the  peasant  girls  to  count  the  number  of  cries 
which  it  repeats  without  pausing,  when  they  are  at  work  in  the  harvest- 
fields,  since  they  believe  this  corresponds  with  the  number  of  years  they 
are  to  live.  There  is  a  pretty  German  pastoral  of  one  of  the  old  poets,  de- 
scribing a  young  maiden  listening  to  a  cuckoo,  which,  to  her  surprise,  pro- 
longs its  cries  much  beyond  the  usual  number.  When,  however,  it  reached 
a  hundred,  she  grew  angry,  and  went  into  the  woods  to  frighten  the  bird 
from  its  song ;  but  instead  of  finding  it,  she  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  her 
lover  who,  to  tease  her,  had  imitated  its  tone. 

(6)  Shall  be  driven  beyond  the  Hills  of  Death.— Page  37. 
The  Todtengelirge  (Mountains  of  Death)  divide  the  Alpine  province 
of  Steyermark  from  that  of  Austria  proper. 

(6)  By  the  ba?iks  of  frozen  Seine. — Page  50. 

An  incident  similar  to  that  described  in  the  poem,  occurred  a  short  time 
before  the  author's  journey  through  France.  A  young  Savoyard  boy, 
traveling  from  Paris  to  Dijon  in  the  dead  of  winter,  was  overtaken  by  a 
snow  storm  at  nightfall,  and  perished.  He  was  found  the  next  morning, 
near  the  road,  kneeling  and  with  clasped  hands,  vet  frozen  to  a  statue. 


NOTES.  61 

(7)  Impatience. — Page  55. 

This  poem  was  written  under  the  pressure  of  somewhat  trying  cir- 
cumstances, and  from  the  impulse  of  an  impatient  spirit.  It  has  been  re- 
tained for  the  lesson  it  bears  to  the  author,  rather  than  any  poetic  merit. 
That  the  feeling  which  it  expresses  is  not  habitual  with  him,  is  shown  by 
the  poem  which  succeeds  it. 


II. 

JJictuttsque  JJallata  of  California. 

"  Over  the  hills 
Away  we  go ! 
Through  fire  and  snow, 
And  rivers,  whereto 
All  others  are  rills. 
Through  lands  of  silver, 
And  lands  of  gold  ; 
Through  lands  untrodden 
And  lands  untold!" 

Festus. 


[Three  of  the  ballads  which  follow,  originally  appeared  in  the  Literary 
World,  under  fictitious  initials,  and  accompanied  by  a  letter  dated  from 
St.  Louis,  in  which  it  was  stated  that  they  had  been  translated  from  the 
rude  songs  of  California,  by  a  Western  naturalist  who  had  resided  on  the 
Pacific  Coast.  This  ruse,  however,  was  only  partially  successful ;  they 
were  attributed  by  journals  in  other  cities,  to  Mr.  Hoffman,  then  Editor  of 
the  Literary  World,  and  frequently  published  under  his  name.  Several 
other  ballads  having  since  been  written,  the  author  now  corrects  this  error, 
so  flattering  to  himself,  and  gives  them  together  to  the  public] 


EL   CANALO. 

Now  saddle  El  Canalo1  —  the  freshening  wind  of  morn 
Down  in  the  flowery  vega,  is  stirring  through  the  corn  ; 
The  thin  smoke  of  the  ranches  grows  red  with    coming 

day, 
And  the  steed's  impatient  stamping  is  eager  for  the  way  ! 

My  glossy-limbed  Canalo,  thy  neck  is  curved  in  pride, 
Thy  slender  ears  pricked    forward,  thy  nostril  straining 

wide  ; 
And  as  thy  quick  neigh  greets  me,  and  1  catch  thee  by  the 

mane, 
I'm  off  with  the  winds  of  morning — the  chieftain  of  the 

plain  ! 

I  feel  the  swift  air  whirring,  and  see  along  our  track, 
From    the  flinty-paved  sierra,   the    sparks    go   streaming 
back ; 


66  EL      CANALO. 

And  I  clutch  my  rifle  closer,  as  we  sweep  the  dark  defile. 
Where  the  red  guerilla  watches  for  many  a  lonely  mile  ! 

They  reach  not  El  Canalo  ;  with  the  swiftness  of  a  dream 
We've  passed  the  bleak  Nevada,  and  Tide's  icy  stream ; 
But  where,  on  sweeping  gallop,  my  bullet  backward  sped, 
The  keen-eyed  mountain  vultures  will  circle  o'er  the  dead  ! 

On  !  on,  my  brave  Canalo  !  we've  dashed  the  sand  and 

snow 
From  peaks  upholding  heaven,  from  deserts  far  below  — 
We've  thundered   through  the  forest,  while  the  crackling 

branches  rang, 
And  trooping  elks,  affrighted,  from  lair  and  covert  sprang  ! 

We've  swam  the  swollen  torrent  —  we've  distanced  in  the 

race 
The  baying  wolves  of  Pinos,  that  panted  with  the  chase  ; 
And  still  thy  mane  streams  backward,  at  every  thrilling 

bound, 
And  still  thy  measured  hoof-stroke  beats  with  its  morning 

sound  ! 

The  seaward  winds  are  wailing  through  Santa  Barbara'? 

pines, 
And  like  a  sheathless  sabre,  the  far  Pacific  shines  ; 


EL      CANALO.  67 

Hold  to  thy  speed,  my  arrow  !  at  nightfall  thou  shalt  lave 
Thy  hot  and  smoking  haunches  beneath  his  silver  wave  ! 

My  head  upon  thy  shoulder,  along  the  sloping  sand 
We'll  sleep  as  trusty  brothers,  from  out  the  mountain  land  ; 
The  pines  will  sound  in  answer  to  the  surges  on  the  shore, 
And  in  our  dreams,  Canalo,  we'll  make  the  journey  o'er  ! 


THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees  ; 
No  sound  was  heard,  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescador,  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 
Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide  ; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint  moving  speck  of  the  rider 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall  ! 


THE     FIGHT      OF     PASO     DEL     MAR. 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind  ; 
With  the  bells  on  his  gray  mule  tinkling, 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind. 
Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows, 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang,  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Corral, 

Had  traveled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him  — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone  ! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain, 
And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the  breakers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With  his  blanket  wrapped  gloomily  round  him, 

He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the  headland 

Were  slippery  and  wet,  as  he  trode  : 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When  near  him  a  mule-bell  came  tinkling, 

Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar  !2 


69 


70  THE     FIGHT      OF      PASO     DEL     MAR. 

"  Back  !"  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely, 

And  "  back  !"  shouted  Pablo,  in  wrath  ; 
As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrinking, 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path  ! 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges 

Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse  war  ; 
And  "  back,  or  you  perish  !"  cried  Bernal, 

"  I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar  !" 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  headland  ; 

He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein, 
When  Pablo  rose  up  in  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 

And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  forward, 

And  fought  o'er  his  trusty  mule's  head. 

They  fought,  till  the  black  wall  below  them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast ; 
Stout  Pablo  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

The  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,  frenzied  with  pain,  the  swart  herdsman 

Closed  round  him  with  terrible  clasp, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  mule,  in  his  grasp. 


THE      FIGHT      OF      PASO      DEL      MAR. 

They  grappled  with  desperate  madness 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall ; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,  and  together 

Reeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall  ! 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar, 
And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  Fisrht  of  the  Paso  del  Mar  ! 


RIO   SACRAMENTO.3 

Sacramento  !  Sacramento, 

Down  the  rough  Nevada  foaming, 

Fain  my  heart  would  join  thy  water 
In  its  glad,  impetuous  roaming, 

For  thy  valley's  fairest  daughter 
Watches  oft  to  see  thee  coming  ! 

Sacramento  !  Sacramento  ! 

From  the  shining  threads  that  wove  thee 
From  the  mountain  woods  that  darken 

All  the  mountain  heaven  above  thee, 
Teach  her  ear  thy  song  to  hearken 

And,  for  what  it  says,  to  love  thee ! 

Sacramento  !  Sacramento  ! 

Lead  me  downward  to  the  glory 
Of  thy  green  and  flowery  meadows  ; 

I  will  leave  the  deserts  hoary, 


RIO      SACRAMENTO.  73 

For  thy  grove  of  quiet  shadows 
And  my  love's  impassioned  story. 

Sacramento  !  Sacramento ! 

Every  dancing  rainbow  broken 
When  thy  falling  waves  are  shattered, 

Is  a  glad  and  beckoning  token 
Of  the  hopes  so  warmly  scattered 

And  the  vows  that  we  have  spoken  ! 

Sacramento  !  Sacramento  '. 

She,  beside  thee,  waits  my  coming  ; 
Teach  my  step  thy  bounding  fleetness, 

Towards  the  bower  of  beauty  roaming, 
Where  she  stands,  in  maiden  sweetness, 

Gazing  idly  on  thy  foaming  ! 


THE    EAGLE    HUNTER. 

Storm  and  rain  are  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  pines  and  torrents  thunder, 
And  the  black  and  driving  shadows 

Make  a  night  along  the  plain  : 
Now  the  herds  are  grouped  for  shelter, 
And  the  herdsmen  wind  their  lassos. 
Towards  the  distant  hacienda, 

Speeding  homeward  through  the  rain  ! 

From  the  icy  Cordilleras 
Crashing  leap  the  avalanches, 
By  the  hands  of  mining  waters 

Loosened  from  their  lofty  hold  ; 
And  the  mountain  sheep  are  scattered 
By  the  firs  and  larches  falling, 
And  the  wild  wolves  howling  gather 

In  the  caverns  dark  and  cold  ! 


THE      EAGLE      HUNTER.  75 

On  the  mighty  summit,  beaten 
By  the  wintry  sleet,  I  wander, 
For  I  seek  the  monarch-eagle 

In  his  eyrie  of  the  rock ; 
And  I  shout  in  fierce  exulting, 
When  his  gray  wing  on  the  darkness 
Of  the  cloud  above  me  flashes, 

Wheeling1  downward  to  the  shock  ! 

Nearer,  with  his  keen  eye  burning, 
And  his  hungry  beak  extended  — 
With  a  shriek  of  anger  swooping 

Comes  the  storm-defying  bird  : 
Yet  as  steady  and  unswerving, 
Upward  flies  the  fatal  arrow, 
And  his  death-cry  on  the  sweeping 

Of  the  sounding  winds  is  heard  ! 

From  his  wing  I  rob  the  plumage, 
And  it  crowns  me  like  a  chieftain, 
And  his  talons  stud  my  girdle 

Like  the  scales  of  olden  mail ; 
Never  wears  the  wild  ranchero 
Such  a  trophy  on  the  vega, 
Or  the  fiery-eyed  Navajo, 

In  the  Colorado's  vale  ! 


76  THE      EAGLE      HUNTER. 

I  am  come  of  nobler  lineage, 
And  my  realm  is  far  above  them, 
Where  the  cradles  of  the  rivers 

Have  been  hollowed  in  the  snow  ; 
And  I  drink  their  crystal  sources, 
Where  the  Bravo  and  Nebraska 
To  their  thousand  leagues  of  travel, 

O'er  the  desolate  prairies  go ! 

In  the  meeting  of  the  thunders, 
When  the  solid  crags  are  shivered, 
Firm  and  fearless  and  rejoicing 

On  the  snowy  peak  I  stand  ; 
For  my  foot  lias  learned  the  lleetness 
Of  the  ibex  on  the  ridges, 
And  my  voice  the  stormy  music 

Of  the  lofty  Mountain  Land  ! 


THE    BISON    TRACK. 

Strike  the  tent !    the  sun  has  risen  ;    not  a  cloud  has 

ribbed  the  dawn, 
And  the  frosted  prairie  brightens  to  the  westward,  far  and 

wan  : 
Prime  afresh  the  trusty  rifle  —  sharpen  well  the  hunting 

spear  — 
For  the  frozen  sod  is  trembling,  and  a  noise  of  hoofs  I 

hear  ! 

Fiercely  stamp  the  tethered  horses,  as  they  snuff  the  morn- 
ing's fire, 

And  their  flashing  heads  are  tossing,  with  a  neigh  of  keen 
desire ; 

Strike  the  tent  —  the  saddles  wait  us  !  let  the  bridle-reins 
be  slack, 

For  the  prairie's  distant  thunder  has  betrayed  the  bison's 
track  ! 


78  THE      BISON      TRACK. 

See  !  a  dusky  line  approaches ;  hark,  the  onward-surging 

roar. 
Like  the  din  of  wintry  breakers   on  a  sounding  wall  of 

shore  ! 
Dust  and  sand  behind   them  whirling,  snort  the  foremost 

of  the  van, 
And  the  stubborn  horns  are  striking,  through  the  crowded 

caravan. 

Now  the  storm  is  down  upon  us  —  let  the  maddened  horses 

go! 
We   shall  ride   the  living  whirlwind,   though  a  hundred 

leagues  it  blow  ! 
Though  the   surgy  manes  should    thicken,  and    the   red 

eyes'  angry  glare 
Lighten  round    us  as  we    gallop  through   the  sand   and 

rushing  air  ! 

Myriad  hoofs  will  scar  the  prairie,  in  our  wild,  resistless 
race, 

And  a  sound,  like  mighty  waters,  thunder  down  the  desert 
space  : 

Yet  the  rein  may  not  be  tightened,  nor  the  rider's  eye 
look  back  — 

Death  to  him  whose  speed  should  slacken,  on  the  mad- 
dened bison's  track  ! 


THE      BISON      TRACK.  79 

Now  the  trampling  herds  are  threaded,  and  the  chase  is 

close  and  warm 
For  the  giant  bull  that  gallops  in  the  edges  of  the  storm  : 
Hurl  your  lassos  swift  and  fearless  —  swing  your  rifles  as 

we  run  ! 
Ha  !  the  dust  is  red  behind  him  —  shout,  my  brothers,  he 

is  won  ! 

Look  not  on  him  as  he  staggers  — 'tis  the  last  shot  he  will 

need  ; 
More  shall  fall,  among  his   fellows,  ere  we  run  the  bold 

stampede  ;  — 
Ere   we  stem   the  swarthy  breakers,  while  the  wolves,  a 

hungry  pack, 
Howl  around  each  grim-eyed  carcass,  on  the  bloody  Bison 

Track  ! 


THE    LAY    OF    LAS   PALMAS 

A    LEGEND    OF    OLD    CALIFORNIA. 

High  on  the  summit, 
Over  the  waters, 
Fronting  the  sunset 

Lingered  the  maid  ; 
Below,  through  the  flashing 
Of  blue  billows  dashing, 
Glided  the  shallop 

Storms  had  delayed  ! 

Ere  the  white  pebbles 
On  the  keel  grated, 
Leaped  the  young  boatman 

Shoreward  amain  ; 
And  in  the  blessing 
Of  love's  quick  caressing, 
Soon  were  forgotten 

Peril  and  pain. 


T  H  E      L  A  Y      0  F      LAS      PALMAS.  81 

Rustled  the  palm-trees 
Low  in  the  twilight  ; 
Night  on  the  waters 

Deepened  afar  ; 
Under  their  cover 
Clasped  she  her  lover, 
While  their  hearts'  throbbings 

Answered  each  star  ! 

Sad  was  the  parting 
Under  the  palm-trees  — 
Dark  was  the  midnight 

When  he  had  gone ! 
Tempests  uprisen 
Burst  their  cloud-prison ; 
Under  their  lightnings,  burned 

Dimly  the  dawn. 

Shattered  the  palm  lay, 
Rent  by  the  red  bolt, 
While  its  lone  brother 

Sighed  in  the  gale  : 
Shattered  the  shallop 
Sank  in  the  surges  ; 
Wild  was  the  maiden's 

Desolate  wail  ! 


82  THE      LAY      OF      LAS      P  A  L  M  A  S 

Perished  the  blighted 
Palm  of  the  summit ; 
Faded  the  maiden's 

Life  with  its  own : 
Now  on  the  rocky 
Front  of  Las  Palmas, 
Mourn  the  wild  sea-gusts, 

Drear  and  alone. 


NOTES 


(*)  Now  saddle  El  Canalo. — Page  65. 

El  Canalo,  or  the  cinnamon-colored,  is  the  name  of  the  choicest  breed 
of  the  Californian  horse.  These  animals  are  capable  of  extraordinary 
speed  and  endurance,  and  between  them  and  their  riders  exists  the  same 
constant  friendship  which  characterizes  the  Arab  and  his  steed.  The  noted 
ride  of  Col.  Fremont  from  Pueblo  de  los  Angeles  to  Monterey  furnishes 
an  evidence  of  what  these  horses  have  accomplished. 

(2)  Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar  ! — Page  69. 

A  pass,  similar  to  that  described  in  the  ballad,  has  been  found  on  the 
Pacific  Coast.  There  is  a  story  told  of  two  Highland  Chieftains  having 
met  their  death  in  a  like  quarrel,  from  a  precipice  on  the  Northern  shore 
of  Scotland. 

(3)  Rio  Sacramento. — Page  72. 

The  valley  of  the  Sacramento  River  is  the  garden  of  California,  and 
contains  the  most  flourishing  American  settlements  which  have  been  made 
in  that  region.  The  fall  of  the  river  from  its  source  to  its  mouth,  is  very 
great,  and  its  current  is  constantly  broken  by  rapids  and  cataracts. 


III. 


Glissez  comme  une  main  sur  la  harpe  qui  vibre 

Glisse  de  corde  en  corde,  arrachant  a  la  fois 

A  chaque  corde  une  ame,  a  chaque  ame  une  voix  !" 

Lamartine. 


A    BACCHIC    ODE. 

Wine  —  bring  wine  ! 

Let  the  crystal  beaker  flame  and  shine, 

Brimming  o'er  with  the  draught  divine  ! 

The  crimson  glow 

Of  the  lifted  cup  on  my  forehead  throw. 

Like  the  sunset's  flush  on  a  field  of  snow ! 

I  burn  to  lave 

My  eager  lip  in  the  purple  wave  ; 

Freedom  bringeth  the  wine  so  brave  ! 

The  world  is  cold  : 

Sorrow  and  pain  have  gloomy  hold, 

Chilling  the  bosom  warm  and  bold. 

Doubts  and  fears 

Veil  the  shine  of  my  morning  years  — 

My  life's  lone  rainbow  springs  from  tears  ! 


88  A     BACCHIC     ODE. 

But  Eden-gleams — 

Visit  my  *oul  in  immortal  dreams, 

When  the  wave  of  the  goblet  burns  and  beams. 

Not  from  the  Rhine 

Not  from  fields  of  Burgundian  vine 

Bring  me  the  bright  Olympian  wine  ! 

Not  with  a  ray 

Born  where  the  winds  of  Shiraz  play. 

Or  the  fiery  blood  of  the  ripe  Tokay  ! 

Not  where  the  glee 

Of  Falernian  vintage  echoes  free, 

Or  the  Chian  gardens  gem  the  sea  ! 

But  wine  —  bring  wine 

Flushing  high  with  its  growth  divine, 

In  the  crystal  depth  of  my  soul  to  shine :  — 

Whose  glow  was  caught 

From  the  warmth  which  Fancy's  summer  brought 

To  the  vintage-fields  in  the  Land  of  Thought ! 

Rich  and  free 

To  my  thirsting  soul  will  the  goblet  be, 

Poured  by  the  Hebe,  Poesy. 


A    FUNERAL    THOUGHT. 

When  the  pale  Genius,  to  whose  hollow  tramp 

Echo  the  startled  chambers  of  the  soul, 
Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that  wan  camp 

Where  the  archangel's  marshaling  trumpets  roll, 
I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber  dim, 

Hushed,  and  o'erburthened  with  a  nameless  fear, 
When  the  breath  nutters  and  the  senses  swim, 

And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 

Though  Love's  dear  arms  might  clasp  me  fondly  then, 

As  if  to  keep  the  Summoner  at  bay, 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief  of  men 

Hallow  at  last  the  still,  unbreathing  clay  — 
These  are  Earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul  would  shrink, 

Thus  bound,  from  Darkness  and  the  dread  Unknown, 
Stretching  its  arms  from  Death's  eternal  brink. 

Which  it  must  dare  alone  ! 


90  A      FUNERAL      THOUGHT. 

But  in  the  awful  silence  of  the  sky, 

Upon  some  mountain  summit,  never  trod, 
Through  the  bright  ether  would  1  climb,  to  die 

Afar  from  mortals  and  alone  with  God  ! 
To  the  pure  keeping  of  the  stainless  air 

Would  I  resign  my  feeble,  failing  breath, 
And  with  the  rapture  of  an  answered  prayer 

Welcome  the  kiss  of  Death  ! 

The  soul,  which  wrestled  with  that  doom  of  pain, 

Prometheus-like,  its  lingering  portion  here, 
Would  there  forget  the  vulture  and  the  chain 

And  leap  to  freedom  from  its  mountain-bier  ! 
All  that  it  ever  knew  of  noble  thought, 

Would  guide  it  upward  on  the  glorious  track, 
Nor  the  keen  pangs  by  parting  anguish  wrought 

Turn  its  bright  glances  back. 

Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  would  turn  ; 

No  worms  should  riot  on  my  coffined  clay, 
But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepulchral  urn 

In  the  slow  storms  of  ages  wTaste  away  ! 
Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason  high 

Should  be  my  requiem  through  the  coming  time, 
And  the  white  summit,  fading  in  the  sky, 

My  monument  sublime. 


THE    ANGEL    OF    THE    SOUL. 

Una  Stella,  una  notte,  cd  una  croce. 

Antonio  Bisazza. 

Silence  hath  conquered  thee,  imperial  Night! 

Thou  sitt'st  alone  within  her  void,  cold  halls, 

Thy  solemn  brow  uplifted,  and  thy  soul 

Paining  the  space  with  dumb  and  mighty  thought. 

The  dreary  wind  ebbs,  voiceless,  round  thy  form. 

Following  the  stealthy  hours,  that  wake  no  stir 

In  the  hushed  velvet  of  thy  mantle's  fold. 

Thy  thoughts  take  being  :  down  the  dusky  aisles 

Go  shapes  of  good,  and  beckoning  ghosts  of  crime, 

And  dreams  of  maddening  beauty —  hopes,  that  shine 

To  darken,  and  in  cloudy  height  sublime, 

The  spectral  march  of  some  approaching  Doom  ! 

Nor  these  alone,  oh  !  Mother  of  the  world, 

People  thy  chambers,  echoless  and  vast ; 

Their  dewy  freshness  like  ambrosia  cools 

Life's  fever-thirst,  and  to  the  fainting  soul 

Their  porphyry  walls  are  touched  with  light,  and  gleams 

Of  shining  wonder  dazzle  through  the  void, 


92  THE      ANGEL      OF     THE     SOUL. 

Like  those  bright  marvels  which  the  traveler's  torch 
Wakes  from  the  darkness  of  three  thousand  years, 
In  rock-hewn  sepulchres  of  Theban  kings. 
Prophets,  whose  brows  of  pale,  unearthly  glow 
Reflect  the  twilight  of  celestial  dawns, 
And  bards,  transfigured  in  immortal  song, 
Like  eager  children,  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 
Unclasp  the  awful  volume  of  thy  lore. 

My  soul  goes  down  thy  far,  untrodden  paths, 

To  the  dim  verge  of  Being.     There  its  step 

Touches  the  threshold  of  sublimer  life, 

And  through  the  boundless  empyrean  leaps 

Its  prayer,  borne  like  a  faint,  expiring  cry, 

To  angel-warders,  listening  as  they  pace 

The  crystal  walls  of  Heaven.     Down  the  blue  fields 

Of  the  untraveled  Infinite,  they  come  : 

Beneath  their  wings  one  sweet,  dilating  wave 

Thrills  the  pure  deep,  and  bears  my  soul  aloft, 

To  walk  amid  their  shining  groups,  and  call 

Its  guardian  spirit,  as  an  orphan  calls 

His  vanished  brother,  taken  in  childhood  home  : 

"  White  through  my  cradled  dreams  thy  pinions  waved, 
Lost  Angel  of  the  Soul !   thy  presence  led 
The  babe's  faint  gropings  through  the  glimmering  dark 
And  into  Being's  conscious  dawn.     Thy  hand 


THE     ANGEL      OF      THE      SOUL.  93 

Held  mine  in  Childhood,  and  thy  beaming  cheek 
Lay  close,  like  some  fond  playmate's,  to  mine  own. 
Up  to  that  boundary,  whence  the  heart  leaps  forth 
To  Life,  like  some  wild  torrent  when  the  rains 
Pour  dark  and  full  upon  the  cloudy  hills, 
Thy  gentle  footsteps  wandered  near  to  mine. 
Be  with  me  now  !     Oh,  in  the  starry  hush 
Of  the  deep  night,  that  holds  the  earthly  down 
In  all  my  nature,  bring  to  me  again 
The  early  purity,  which  kept  thy  hand 
From  the  entrancing  harp  it  held  in  Heaven  ! 
Through  the  warm  starting  of  my  hoarded  tears, 
Let  me  behold  thine  eyes  divine,  as  stars 
Gleam  through  the  twilight  vapors  of  the  sea  ! 

"  Not  yet  hast  thou  forsaken  me.     The  prayer 
Whose  crowning  fervor  lifts  my  nature  up 
Midway  to  God,  may  still  evoke  thy  form. 
Thou  hast  been  with  me,  when  the  midnight  dew 
Clung  damp  upon  my  brow,  and  the  broad  fields 
Stretched  far  and  dim  beneath  the  ghostly  moon  ; 
When  the  dark,  awful  woods  were  silent  near, 
And  with  imploring  hands  toward  the  stars 
Clasped  in  mute  yearning,  I  have  questioned  Heaven 
For  the  lost  language  of  the  book  of  Life. 
Oh,  then  thy  face  was  glorious,  and  thy  hair 
On  the  white  moonbeam  floating,  veiled  thy  brow. 


94  THE      A  N  G  E  L      OF     T  II  E      SOUL. 

But  in  the  holy  sadness  of  thine  eye 
Which  held  my  spirit,  tremblingly  I  saw 
Through  rushing  tears,  the  sign  of  angel-grief 
O'er  the  false  promise  of  diviner  years. 
From  the  far  glide  of  some  descending  strain 
Of  tenderest  music,  I  have  heard  thy  voice  ; 
And  thou  hast  called  amid  the  stormy  rush 
Of  grand  orchestral  triumph,  with  a  sound 
Resistless  in  its  power.     1  feel  the  light 
Which  is  thine  atmosphere,  around  my  soul, 
When  a  great  sorrow  gulfs  it  from  the  world. 

"  Come  back  !  come  back  !  my  heart  grows  faint,  to  know 

How  thy  withdrawing  radiance  leaves  more  dim 

The  twilight  borders  of  the  night  of  Earth. 

Now  when  the  bitter  truth  is  learned  ;  when  all 

That  seemed  so  high  and  good  but  mocks  its  seeming 

When  the  warm  dreams  of  youth  come  shivering  back, 

In  the  cold  chambers  of  the  heart  to  die  — 

When,  with  the  wrestling  years,  familiar  grows 

The  merciless  hand  of  Pain,  desert  me  not ! 

Come  with  the  true  heart  of  the  faithful  Night, 

When  I  have  cast  away  the  masquing  garb 

Of  hollow  Day,  and  lain  my  soul  to  rest 

On  her  consoling  bosom  !     From  the  founts 

Of  thine  exhaustless  light,  make  clear  the  road 

Through  toil  and  darkness,  into  God's  repose  !" 


THE    ENCHANTED    KNIGHT. 

In  the  solemn  night,  when  the  soul  receives 
The  dreams  it  has  sighed  for  long, 

I  mused  o'er  the  charmed,  romantic  leaves 
Of  a  book  of  German  Song. 

From  stately  towers  I  saw  the  lords 

Ride  out  to  the  feudal  fray  ; 
I  heard  the  ring  of  meeting  swords 

And  the  Minnesinger's  lay  ! 

And,  gliding  ghost-like  through  my  dream, 
Went  the  Erl-king  with  a  moan, 

Where  the  wizard  willow  o'erhung  the  stream 
And  the  spectral  moonlight  shone. 

I  followed  the  hero's  path,  who  rode 

In  harness  and  helmet  bright,1 
Through  a  wood  where  hostile  elves  abode, 

In  the  glimmering  noon  of  night. 


96  THE      ENCHANTED      KNIGHT. 

Banner  and  bugle's  call  had  died 

Amid  the  shadows  far, 
And  a  misty  stream,  from  the  mountain  side, 

Dropped  like  a  silver  star. 

Thirsting  and  flushed,  from  the  steed  he  leapt, 
And  quaffed  from  his  helm  unbound  ; 

Then  a  mystic  trance  o'er  his  spirit  crept 
And  he  sank  to  the  elfin  ground. 

He  slept  in  the  ceaseless  midnight  cold 

By  the  faery  spell  possessed, 
His  head  sunk  down,  and  his  gray  beard  rolled 

On  the  rust  of  his  armed  breast ! 

When  a  mighty  storm-wind  smote  the  trees 

And  the  crashing  thunder  fell, 
He  raised  the  sword  from  its  mould'ring  ease 

And  strove  to  burst  the  spell. 

And  thus  may  the  fiery  soul,  that  rides 
Like  a  knight  to  the  field  of  foes, 

Drink  of  the  chill  world's  tempting  tides 
And  sink  to  a  charmed  repose. 

The  warmth  of  the  generous  heart  of  Youth 
Will  die  in  the  frozen  breast  — 


THE      ENCHANTED     KNIGHT.  97 

The  look  of  Love  and  the  voice  of  Truth 
Be  charmed  to  a  palsied  rest ! 

In  vain  will  the  thunder  a  moment  burst 

The  chill  of  that  torpor's  breath  ; 
The  slumbering  soul  shall  be  wakened  first 

By  the  Disenchanter.  Death  ! 


AN    HOUR. 

I've  left  the  keen,  cold  winds  to  blow 

Around  the  summits  bare  ; 
My  sunny  pathway  to  the  sea 

Winds  downward,  green  and  fair, 
And  bright-leaved  branches  toss  and  glow 

Upon  the  buoyant  air  ! 

The  fern  its  fragrant  plumage  droops 

O'er  mosses  crisp  and  gray, 
Where  on  the  shaded  crags  I  sit, 

Beside  the  cataract's  spray, 
And  watch  the  far-off,  shining  sails 

Go  down  the  sunny  bay  ! 

I've  left  the  wintry  winds  of  life 

On  barren  hearts  to  blow  — 
The  anguish  and  the  gnawing  care, 

The  silent,  shuddering  woe  ! 


AN      HOUR.  99 

Across  the  balmy  sea  of  dreams 
My  spirit-bark  shall  go  ! 

Learned  not  the  breeze  its  fairy  lore 
Where  sweetest  measures  throng  ? 

A  maiden  sings,  beside  the  stream, 
Some  chorus,  wild  and  long. 

Mingling  and  blending  with  its  roar 
Like  rainbows  turned  to  song. 

I  hear  it,  like  a  strain  that  sweeps 

The  confines  of  a  dream ; 
Now  fading  into  silent  space, 

Now  with  a  flashing  gleam 
Of  triumph,  ringing  through  the  deeps 

Of  forest,  dell  and  stream  ! 

Away  !  away  !     I  hear  the  horn 

Among  the  hills  of  Spain : 
The  old,  chivalric  glory  fires 

Her  warrior-hearts  again  ! 
Ho  !  how  their  banners  light  the  morn, 

Along  Grenada's  plain  ! 

I  hear  the  hymns  of  holy  faith 
The  red  Crusaders  sang, 


1 00  AN      HOUR. 

And  the  silver  horn  of  Ronceval,2 

That  o'er  the  tecbir  rang 
When  prince  and  kaiser  through  the  fray 

To  the  paladin's  rescue  sprang  ! 


A  beam  of  burning  light  I  hold  !  — 

My  good  Damascus  brand, 
And  the  jet-black  charger  that  I  ride 

Was  foaled  in  the  Arab  land, 
And  a  hundred  horsemen,  mailed  in  steel, 

Follow  my  bold  command  ! 


Through  royal  cities  speeds  our  march 
The  minster-bells  are  rung  ; 

The  loud,  rejoicing  trumpets  peal, 
The  battle-flags  are  swung, 

And  sweet,  sweet  lips  of  ladies  praise 
The  chieftain,  brave  and  young. 


And  now,  in  bright  Provencal  bowers, 

A  minstrel-knight  am  I  : 
A  gentle  bosom  on  my  own 

Throbs  back  its  ecstasy  ; 
A  cheek,  as  fair  as  the  almond  flowers, 

Thrills  to  my  lips'  reply. 


AN      HOUR.  101 

I  tread  the  fanes  of  wondrous  Rome, 

Crowned  with  immortal  bay, 
And  myriads  throng  the  Capitol 

To  hear  my  lofty  lay, 
While,  sounding  o'er  the  Tiber's  foam, 

Their  shoutings  peal  away  ! 

Oh,  triumph  such  as  this  were  worth 

The  Poet's  doom  of  pain, 
Whose  hours  are  brazen  on  the  earth, 

But  golden  in  the  brain  : 
I  close  the  starry  gate  of  dreams, 

And  walk  the  dust  again. 


GAUTAMA'S    SONG    OF    RESTV 

How  long,  oh  !  all-pervading  Soul  of  Earth, 
Ere  Thy  last  toils  on  this  worn  being  close, 

And  trembling  with  its  sudden  glory-birth, 
Its  wings  are  folded  in  the  lost  repose  ! 

Thy  doom,  resistless,  on  its  travel  lies 

Through  weary  wastes  of  labor  and  of  pain, 

Where  the  soul  falters,  as  its  Paradise 
In  far-off  mirage  fades  and  flies  again. 

From  that  pure  realm  of  silence  and  of  joy, 
The  quickening  glories  of  Thy  slumber  shine, 

Kindling  to  birth  the  lifeless  world's  alloy, 
Till  its  dead  bosom  bears  a  seed  divine. 

Through  meaner  forms  the  spirit  slowly  rose, 
Which  now  to  meet  its  near  Elysium  burns  ; 

Through  toilsome  ages,  circling  toward  Repose, 
The  sphere  of  Being  on  its  axle  turns  ! 


SONG     OF     REST.  103 

Filled  with  the  conscious  essence  that  shall  grow. 

Through  many-changed  existence,  up  to  Man, 
The  sighing  airs  of  scented  Ceylon  blow, 

And  desert  whirlwinds  whelm  the  caravan. 

On  the  blue  bosom  of  th'  eternal  deep 

It  moves  forever  in  the  heaving  tide  ; 
And,  throned  on  giant  Himalaya's  steep, 

It  hurls  the  crashing  avalanche  down  his  side  ! 

The  wing  of  fire  strives  upward  to  the  air, 
Bursting  in  thunder  rock-bound  hills  apart, 

And  the  deep  globe  itself,  complains  to  bear 
The  earthquake  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart ! 

Even  when  the  waves  are  wearied  out  with  toil, 
And  in  their  caverns  swoon  the  winds  away, 

A  thousand  germs  break  through  the  yielding  soil, 
And  bees  and  blossoms  charm  the  drowsy  day. 

In  stillest  calms,  when  Nature's  self  doth  seem 
Sick  for  the  far-off  rest,  the  work  goes  on 

In  deep  old  forests,  like  a  silent  dream, 

And  sparry  caves,  that  never  knew  the  dawn. 

From  step  to  step,  through  long  and  weary  time, 
The  struggling  atoms  rise  in  Nature's  plan, 


104  <;autama's    song    of    rest. 

Till  dust  instinctive  reaches  mind  sublime  — 
Till  lowliest  being  finds  its  bloom  in  Man  ! 

Here,  on  the  borders  of  that  Realm  of  Peace, 
The  gathered  burdens  of  existence  rest, 

And  like  a  sea  whose  surges  never  cease 

Heaves  with  its  care  the  weary  human  breast. 

Oh  !  bright  effulgence  of  th'  Eternal  Power, 
Break  the  worn  band,  and  wide  thy  portals  roll  ! 

With  silent  glory  flood  the  solemn  hour 

When  star-eyed  slumber  welcomes  back  the  soul ! 

Then  shall  the  spirit  sink  in  rapture  down, 

Like  some  rich  blossom  drunk  with  noontide's  beam, 

Or  the  wild  bliss  of  music,  sent  to  crown 

The  wakening  moment  of  a  midnight  dream. 

Through  all  the  luminous  seas  of  ether  there, 
Stirs  not  a  trembling  wave,  to  break  the  rest ; 

But  fragrance,  and  the  silent  sense  of  prayer, 
Charm  the  eternal  slumber  of  the  Blest  ! 


THE  SOUL'S  SONG  OF  ACTION. 

Like  the  silver  wing  of  starlight,  sweeping  on  its  silent 

race, 
Widening  forward  and  forever  through  eternities  of  space, 
Moves  the  human  soul  in  longings  and   in  thought  and 

deed  sublime, 
On  from  summit  unto  summit,  o'er  the  solemn  hills  of 

Time ! 

Earth  would  sink  to  Night  and  Chaos,  were  that  golden 
draught  no  more 

From  the  sun's  o'erbrimming  chalice  on  the  thirsty  gloom 
to  pour, 

And  the  spirit-planet  darkens  in  its  orbit  blind  and  chill, 

When  its  flaming  wings  are  folded  and  its  pulse  of  light- 
ning still. 

Not  with  sweat  of  weary  labor,  as  we  shed  on  earthly  soil. 
But  with  thrills  of  power  and  glory,  goes  the  spirit  to  its 
toil  — 

5* 


1 06  T  H  E      S  0  D  L  [  S      SO  N  G      O  P      A  C  T  ION. 

To  the  long   and  eager  striving   for  the  grasp  of  things 

afar. 
Like   the   throbbing   of    the  firefly   for  the   lustre   of   the 

star  !4 

Toil  and  Grief  and  Self-denial,  must  its  burdened  pinions 

bear, 
Beating  vainly  for  the  freedom  of  the  far  empyreal  air  ; 
But  above  Earth's  wail  and  struggling,  like  a  trumpet  in 

the  van, 
Through  the  dim  and  listening  ages,  speaks  the  Destiny 

of  Man  ! 

From  the  living  soul  of  Nature  comes  an  echo  to  the  hearty 
Filled  with  deep,  resistless  longing,  when  the  fading  beams 

depart  — 
When  the  holy  shadows  gather  and  the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
And  a  saddened  fire  of  feeling  kindles  in  the  dewy  eye. 

"When  the  noon  of  night  is  silent,  and  the  silvery  moon- 
light falls 

On  the  forest's  branching  columns,  on  its  broken  foliage- 
walls  — 

Comes  that  starry  presence  nearer,  hushing  all  the  fearful 
air. 

Till  the  soul  has  prophet-glimpses  of  the  glory  it  shall 
wear. 


Not  within  the  sick  wind's  sighing,  nor  in  sleeping  sea  and 

field  — 
Outward  types  of  weary  toiling  —  are  its  oracles  revealed  ; 
But  in  shadows  and  in  whispers  from  the  void  and  vast 

Unknown, 
And  in  thoughts  whose  holy  beauty  seems  to  come  from 

God  alone. 

Far-away  appears  the  gleaming  of  a  radiant  star  of  bliss, 
As  if  that  sublime  existence  were  foreshadowed  unto  this ; 
And  the  spirit,  onward  speeding,  to  the  summit  yet  untrod, 
Sees  the  shining  path  of  angels  leading  upward  unto  God. 

Through  the  hushed  and  solemn   portal,  where  a  silent 

warder  stands, 
Rests  its  purer  gaze,  rejoicing,  on  the  shores  of  better  lands ; 
In  the  Night  it  triumphed  over,  lie  the  fetters  it  has  worn, 
And  it  floats  with  wing  unshackled  on  the  golden  tides  of 

morn  ! 

With  a  kingly  grasp  of  knowledge  shall  it  mount  before 
the  sun, 

Adding  realms  of  conquered  Darkness  to  the  wide  do- 
minion won  : 

There  the  lore  of  Truth  Eternal  shall  the  angel-mind 
employ, 

And  in  active  being  blossom  the  immortal  flowers  of  Joy  ! 


AN    AUTUMN    THOUGHT. 

Here  arches  high  the  forest's  golden  ceiling, 

And  hides  the  heaven  of  blue, 
Save  where  a  dim  and  lonely  ray  is  stealing 

The  twining  branches  through. 

Here  mossed  with  age,  stands  many  a  hoary  column, 

To  prop  the  mighty  hall  ; 
Nought  breaks  the  silence,  undisturbed  and  solemn, 

Save  when  the  dry  leaves  fall. 

The  world's  annoyance  to  the  wide  air  flinging, 

Alone  I  tread  its  floor  ; 
What  joy,  to  feel  a  purer  thought  upspringing, 

Within  the  wood  once  more  ! 

Here,  the  good  angels  that  my  childhood  guarded, 

Come  to  my  side  again, 
And  by  their  presence  is  my  soul  rewarded 

For  many  an  hour  of  pain. 


AN      AUTUMN      THOUGHT.  109 

The  Summer's  beauty,  by  the  frosts  o'ershaded, 

May  be  with  sadness  fraught, 
Yet,  wandering  through  her  long  pavilions  faded, 

I  read  a  joyous  thought. 

Hopes  that  around  us  in  their  beauty  hover, 

Fall  like  this  forest-rain  ; 
But,  the  stern  winter  of  Misfortune  over, 

They  bloom  as  fresh  again ! 

The  spring-like  verdure  of  the  heart  may  perish 

Beneath  some  frosty  care, 
But  many  a  bud  which  Sorrow  learned  to  cherish 

Will  bloom  again  as  fair. 

Keep  but  the  artless  and  confiding  spirit 

That  beamed  on  Childhood's  brow, 
And  when  thy  soul  Life's  Autumn  shall  inherit, 

Thou  shalt  rejoice  as  now  ! 

1845. 


UPWARD! 

Cease  your  wild  fluttering,  Thoughts  that  fill  the  soul ! 

Silence  awhile,  'tis  hut  the  hour  of  hirth  ! 
Spurn  not  impatiently  the  mind's  control, 

Nor  seek  the  clouds  ere  ye  have  looked  on  earth  ! 
Still  your  strong  beating  till  the  day  has  gone 
And  starry  eve  comes  on  ! 

Why  would  you  sweep  so  proudly  through  the  sky, 
With  fearless  wing  the  snow-crowned  hills  above, 

Where  the  strong  eagle  scarcely  dares  to  fly 

And  the  cloud-armies  thunder  as  they  rove  — 

Make  in  the  solitude  of  storms  your  path 

And  tempt  the  lightning's  wrath  ? 


Will  ye  not  linger  in  the  earth's  green  fields 
Till  the  first  feebleness  of  youth  is  o'er, 


UPWARD! 


Ill 


Clasp  the  fresh  joy  that  young  existence  yields 
In  the  bright  Present,  and  desire  no  more  ? 
Lulled  among  blossoms,  down  Life's  morning  stream 
Glide,  in  Elysian  dream  ? 

I  pause.     In  might  the  thronging  Thoughts  arise  : 
Hopes  unfulfilled  and  glory  yet  afar, 

Vague,  restless  longings,  that  would  seek  the  skies, 
And  back  in  flame  come  like  a  falling  star. 

I  hear  ye  in  the  heart's  loud  beating  seek 
A  voice  wherewith  to  speak. 

"  Say,  can  the  children  of  a  loftier  sphere 

Find  on  the  earth  the  freedom  they  desire  ? 

Can  the  strong  spirit  fold  its  pinions  here 

And  give  to  joy  the  utterance  of  its  lyre  ? 

Can  the  fledged  eaglet,  born  where  sunbeams  burn, 
Back  into  darkness  turn  1 


"  Must  not  the  wing  that  would  aspire  to  sweep 

Through  realms  undarkened  by  the  breath  of  sin, 

Dare  in  its  earliest  flight  the  trackless  deep, 
Nor  faint  and  feebly  on  the  earth  begin  — 

Mount  as  a  soaring  lark,  in  morning's  glow, 
And  leave  the  mists  below  ? 


112  upward! 

"  No  soul  can  soar  too  loftily,  whose  aim 

Is  God-given  Truth  and  brother-love  of  man ; 

Who  builds  in  hearts  the  altars  of  his  fame, 
And  ends  in  love  what  sympathy  began. 

Spirit,  ascend  !  though  far  thy  flight  may  be, 
God  then  is  nearer  thee. 


1845. 


NOTES 


(l)  In  harness  and  helmet  bright. — Page  95. 
This  old  legend  is  told  in  Uhland's  beautiful  ballad,  commencing : 
"  Vor  seinem  Heergefolge  ritt 
DeralteHeldHarald— " 

(2)  And  the  silver  horn  of  Eongeval.-Pa.ge  100. 
"  In  spite  of  all  the  noise  of  the  battle,  the  sound  of  Roland's  horn 
broke  over  it  like  a  voice  out  of  the  other  world.     They  say  that  birds  fell 
dead  at  it,  and  that  the  whole  Saracen  army  drew  back  in  terror." — Or- 
lando Furioso. 

(3)   Gautama's  Song  of  Rest. — Page  102. 

The  Hindoo  philosopher  Gautama,  now  worshiped  under  the  name  of 
Buddha,  lived  in  the  fifth  century  before  Christ.  He  taught  the  unity  of 
God  and  Nature,  or  rather,  that  the  physical  and  spiritual  worlds  are  merely 
different  conditions  of  an  Eternal  Being.  In  the  spiritual  state,  this  Being 
exists  in  perfect  and  blissful  rest,  whose  emanations  and  overflowings  enter 
the  visible  world,  first  in  the  lowest  forms  of  nature,  but  rising  through 
gradual  and  progressive  changes  till  they  reach  man,  who  returns  after 
death  to  the  original  rest  and  beatitude. 

(4)  Like  the  throbbing  of  the  firefly  for  the  lustre  of  the  star.— Page  106. 

"  The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star  — 
Of  the  night  for  the  morrow  ; 
The  devotion  for  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  !" 

Shelley 


IV. 

miscellaneous  Poems. 

"  And  many  a  verse  of  such  strange  influence, 
That  we  must  ever  wonder  how  and  whence 

It  came." 

Keats. 


THE    NORSEMAN'S    RIDE. 

The  frosty  fires  of  Northern  starlight 

Gleamed  on  the  glittering  snow. 
And  through  the  forest's  frozen  branches 

The  shrieking  winds  did  blow ; 
A  floor  of  blue  and  icy  marble 

Kept  ocean's  pulses  still, 
When,  in  the  depth  of  dreary  midnight, 

Opened  the  burial  hill. 

Then  while  a  low  and  creeping  shudder 

Thrilled  upward  through  the  ground, 
The  Norseman  came,  as  armed  for  battle, 

In  silence  from  his  mound  ; 
He,  who  was  mourned  in  solemn  sorrow 

By  many  a  swordsman  bold, 
And  harps  that  wailed  along  the  ocean, 

Struck  by  the  Skalds  of  old  ! 


118 


Sudden,  a  swift  and  silver  shadow 

Came  up  from  out  the  gloom  — 
A  charger  that  with  hoof  impatient, 

Stamped,  noiseless,  at  the  tomb. 
"  Ha,  Surtur  I1  let  me  hear  thy  tramping, 

My  fiery  Northern  steed, 
That,  sounding  through  the  stormy  forest, 

Bade  the  bold  Viking  heed  !" 

He  mounted  :  like  a  North-light  streaking 

The  sky  with  flaming  bars, 
They,  on  the  winds  so  wildly  shrieking, 

Shot  up  before  the  stars. 
"  Is  this  thy  mane,  my  fearless  Surtur, 

That  streams  against  my  breast? 
Is  this  thy  neck,  that  curve  of  moonlight 

Which  Helva's  hand  caressed  ? 

"  No  misty  breathing  strains  thy  nostril, 
Thine  eye  shines  blue  and  cold, 

Yet,  mounting  up  our  airy  pathway, 
I  see  thy  hoofs  of  gold  ! 

Not  lighter  o'er  the  springing  rainbow 
Walhalla's  gods  repair, 

Than  we,  in  sweeping  journey  over 
The  bending  bridge  of  air  ! 


the    Norseman's    ride.  119 

"  Far,  far  around,  star-gleams  are  sparkling 

Amid  the  twilight  space  ; 
And  Earth,  that  lay  so  cold  and  darkling, 

Has  veiled  her  dusky  face. 
Are  those  the  Nornes  that  beckon  onward, 

As  if  to  Odin's  board, 
Where  by  the  hands  of  warriors  nightly 

The  sparkling  mead  is  poured  ? 

"  'Tis  Skuld  !  her  star-eye  speaks  the  glory 

That  wraps  the  mighty  soul, 
When  on  its  hinge  of  music  opens 

The  gateway  of  the  Pole  — 
When  Odin's  warder  leads  the  hero 

To  banquets  never  o'er, 
And  Freya's  glances  fill  the  bosom 

With  sweetness  evermore  ! 

"  On  !  on  !  the  Northern  lights  are  streaming 

In  brightness  like  the  morn, 
And  pealing  far  amid  the  vastness, 

I  hear  the  Gjallarhorn  ! 
The  heart  of  starry  space  is  throbbing 

With  songs  of  minstrels  old, 
And  now,  on  high  Walhalla's  portal 

Gleam  Surtur's  hoofs  of  gold  !" 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    FIRE. 

They  sat  by  the  hearth-stone,  broad  and  bright, 
Whose  burning  brands  threw  a  cheerful  light 
On  the  frosty  calm  of  the  winter's  night. 

Her  radiant  features  wore  the  gleam 

Which  childhood  learns  from  an  angel-dream, 

And  her  bright  hair  stirred  in  the  flickering  beam. 

Those  tresses  soft  to  his  lips  were  pressed, 
Her  head  was  leaned  on  his  happy  breast, 
And  the  throb  of  the  bosom  his  soul  expressed  ; 

And  ever  a  gentle  murmur  came 

From  the  clear,  bright  heart  of  the  wavering  flame, 

Like  the  faltering  thrill  of  a  worshiped  name. 

He  kissed  her  on  the  warm,  white  brow, 
And  told  her  in  fonder  words,  the  vow 
He  whispered  under  the  moonlit  bough  ; 


;    THE     VOICE      OF      THE      FIRE.  121 

And  o'er  them  a  steady  radiance  came 

From  the  shining  heart  of  the  mounting  flame, 

Like  a  love  that  burns  through  life  the  same. 

The  maiden  smiled  through  her  joy-dimmed  eyes, 
As  he  led  her  spirit  to  sunnier  skies. 
Whose  cloudless  light  on  the  Future  lies  — 

And  a  moment  paused  the  laughing  flame, 
And  it  listened  awhile,  and  then  there  came 
A  cheery  burst  from  its  sparkling  frame. 

He  visioned  a  home  by  pure  love  blest, 
Clasping  their  souls  in  a  calmer  rest, 
Like  woodland  birds  in  their  leafy  nest. 

There  slept,  foreshadowed,  the  bliss  to  be, 
When  a  tenderer  life  that  home  should  see 
In  the  wingless  cherub  that  climbed  his  knee. 

And  the  flame  went  on  with  its  flickering  song 
And  beckoned  and  laughed  to  the  lovers  long, 
Who  sat  in  its  radiance,  red  and  strong. 

Then  broke  and  fell  a  glimmering  brand 
To  the  cold,  dead  ashes  it  fed  and  fanned, 
And  its  last  gleam  leaped  like  an  infant's  hand. 

G 


122  THE     VOICE      OF     THE      FIRE. 

A  sudden  dread  to  the  maiden  stole, 

For  a  cloudy  sorrow  seemed  to  roll 

O'er  the  sunny  landscape  within  her  soul. 

But  hovering  over  its  smoldering  bed, 
Its  ruddy  pinions  the  flame  outspread, 
And  again  through  the  chamber  its  glory  shed 

And  ever  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
The  mingled  voices  of  household  glee, 
Like  the  gush  of  winds  in  a  mountain-tree. 

The  night  went  on  in  its  silent  flow, 

As  through  the  waving  and  wreathed  glow 

They  watched  the  years  of  the  Future  go. 

Their  happy  spirits  learned  the  chime 

Of  its  laughing  voice  and  murmured  rhyme  — 

A  joyous  music  for  after-time. 

They  felt  a  flame  as  glorious  start, 
Where,  side  by  side,  they  dwelt  apart, 
In  the  quiet  homestead  of  the  heart. 


A    VOICE    FROM    PIEDMONT. 

"  Avenge,  O  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  Mountains  cold." 

Milton — Sonnet  on  the  Massacres  in  Piedmont. 

Bend  from  that  Heaven,  whose  visioned  glories  gave, 
Thou  blind  old  Bard,  the  splendor  of  thy  song, 

And  give  the  godlike  words  which  mortals  crave, 
To  speak,  exulting,  o'er  the  fallen  Wrong  ! 

For  lo  !  the  Avenger  of  that  hour  of  blood 

Has  heard  at  last  thy  summons,  stern  and  grand  — 

Has  freed  the  children  of  the  slaughtered  brood, 
In  the  cold  Alpine  land  ! 

O  !  at  the  tardy  word,  whose  thunder  broke 
The  chains  of  ages  from  that  suffering  flock, 

Methinks  the  mountain's  giant  soul  awoke, 
And  thrilled  beneath  th'  eternal  ribs  of  rock ! 

The  ancient  glaciers  brightened  in  the  sky  ; 

Beneath  them,  shouting,  burst  the  jubilant  rills, 

And  the  white  Alps  of  Piedmont  made  reply 
To  the  free  Vaudois  hills  ! 


124  A      VOICE      FROM     PIEDMONT. 

And  far  below,  in  the  green  pasture-vales, 
The  Waldense  shepherd  knelt  upon  the  sod, 

While  chapel-bells  chimed  on  the  mountain  gales 
And  every  chalet  sent  its  hymn  to  God  ! 

Matron  and  sire,  and  sweet-voiced  peasant  maid, 
And  the  strong  hunter  from  the  steeps  of  snow, 

Looked  up  to  Him,  whose  help  their  fathers  prayed, 
Through  years  of  blood  and  woe. 

Build  now  the  sepulchres  of  martyrs  old  : 
Gather  the  scattered  bones  from  every  glen 

Where  the  red  waves  of  pitiless  slaughter  rolled, 
When  fell  those  brave  and  steadfast-hearted  men  ! 

Piedmont  is  free  !  and  brightening  with  the  years, 
Shall  Freedom's  sun  upon  her  mountains  shine  ; 

While  her  proud  children  say,  with  joyous  tears, 
"  The  glory,  Lord,  be  Thine  !" 


"LITTLE    PAUL." 

Through  the  curtains  poured  the  sunlight 

With  a  sudden  gush  of  joy, 
Where,  upon  his  bed  of  weakness, 

Lay  the  dying  little  boy. 
On  the  rising  airs  of  Evening 

Balmy  sounds  of  Summer  came, 
And  a  Voice  amid  their  music 

Seemed  to  call  him  by  his  name  : 
And  the  golden  waves  were  dancing 

On  the  flooded  chamber- wall  — 
On  the  sunny  hair  of  Florence 

And  the  brow  of  little  Paul ! 

As  the  sunset's  tide,  receding, 

Ebbed  again  into  the  sky, 
Passed  the  faint  hue  from  his  features 

And  the  lustre  from  his  eye ; 
As  if  up  the  rosy  surges 

Of  that  shining  river's  flow, 


126  "LITTLE     PAUL." 

Went  his  spirit  to  the  Angel 
Who  had  claimed  it  long  ago ! 

Fonder  still,  and  full  of  yearning, 
Seemed  to  come  her  gentle  call, 

And  the  throb  of  life  grew  fainter 
In  the  heart  of  little  Paul ! 

But  the  fond  arms  of  a  sister 

Like  a  link  around  him  lay, 
Chaining  back  his  fluttering  spirit 

To  the  love  which  was  its  stay  ; 
And  his  own  weak  arms  were  folded 

In  a  clinging,  dear  embrace, 
Till  his  cheek  and  dewy  forehead 

Rested  gently  on  her  face. 
Slowly  sank  his  weary  eyelids ; 

One  faint  breathing  —  that  was  all, 
And  no  more  the  kiss  of  Florence 

Thrilled  the  lips  of  little  Paul  ! 


A    REaUlEM    IN    THE    NORTH. 

Speed  swifter,  Night  !  — wild  Northern  Night, 

Whose  feet  the  Arctic  islands  know, 
When  stiffening  breakers,  sharp  and  white, 

Gird  the  complaining  shores  of  snow  / 
Send  all  thy  winds  to  sweep  the  wold 

And  howl  in  mountain-passes  far, 
And  hang  thy  banners,  red  and  cold, 

Against  the  shield  of  every  star ! 

For  what  have  I  to  do  with  morn, 

Or  summer's  glory  in  the  vales  — 
With  the  blithe  ring  of  forest-horn, 

Or  beckoning  gleam  of  snowy  sails  ? 
Art  thou  not  gone,  in  whose  blue  eye 

The  fleeting  summer  dawned  to  me  ?  — 
Gone,  like  the  echo  of  a  sigh 

Beside  the  loud,  resounding  sea  ! 


128  A      REQUIEM      IN      THE      NORTH. 

Oh,  brief  that  time  of  song  and  flowers, 

Which  blessed,  through  thee,  the  Northern  Land  ! 
I  pine  amid  its  leafless  bowers 

And  on  the  black  and  lonely  strand. 
The  forest  wails  the  starry  bloom 

Which  yet  shall  pave  its  shadowy  floor, 
But  down  my  spirit's  aisles  of  gloom 

Thy  love  shall  blossom  nevermore  ! 

And  nevermore  shall  battling  pines 

Their  solemn  triumph  sound  for  me  ; 
Nor  morning  fringe  the  mountain-lines, 

Nor  sunset  flush  the  hoary  sea  ; 
But  Night  and  Winter  fill  the  sky 

And  load  with  frost  the  shivering  air, 
Till  every  gust  that  hurries  by 

Chimes  wilder  with  my  own  despair  ! 

The  leaden  twilight,  cold  and  long, 

Is  slowly  settling  o'er  the  wave  ; 
No  wandering  blast  awakes  a  song 

In  naked  boughs,  above  thy  grave. 
The  frozen  air  is  still  and  dark  ; 

The  numb  earth  lies  in  icy  rest  ; 
And  all  is  dead  save  this  one  spark 

Of  burning  grief,  within  my  breast. 


A      REdUIEM       IN      THE      NORTH.  1 £9 

Life's  darkened  orb  shall  wheel  no  more 

To  Love's  rejoicing  summer  back  ; 
My  spirit  walks  a  wintry  shore, 

With  not  a  star  to  light  its  track. 
Speed  swifter,  Night  !  thy  gloom  and  frost 

Are  free  to  spoil  and  ravage  here ; 
This  last  wild  requiem  for  the  lost, 

I  pour  in  thy  unheeding  ear  ! 


RE-UNION. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    KARL    CHRISTIAN    TENNER. 

The  sun  descends — in  the  chamber 
Sit  father  and  mother  and  boy ; 

So  fondly  in  love  united, 

Their  hearts  run  over  with  joy. 

The  sun  descends  —  at  the  portal 
What  may  the  knocking  be  ? 

Knocking  and  quietly  calling  : 
"  Come,  father,  come  to  me  !" 

The  sun  descends  —  and  the  father 

Struggles  with  fevered  pain, 
Clasping  the  mournful  mother 

And  trembling  child  in  vain. 

The  sun  descends  —  at  the  portal 
What  may  the  knocking  be  ? 


RE -UN  I  ON.  131 


Knocking  and  quietly  calling  : 
"  Come,  mother,  come  to  me  !! 


The  sun  descends  —  and  the  mother 
Holdeth  the  boy  to  her  heart, 

Closely  and  warm,  as  if  never 
Her  fond  embrace  would  part. 

The  sun  descends  —  there's  a  whisper 
In  the  leaves  of  the  threshold-tree, 

Sadly  and  quietly  calling  : 

"  Come,  brother,  come  to  me  !" 

The  sun  descends  —  and  smileth 
The  boy  in  the  fading  beam  ; 

And,  folding  his  small  hands  meekly, 
He  sinks  to  a  peaceful  dream. 

The  sun  descends  —  in  the  chamber 
'Tis  silent,  as  ne'er  before : 

There  echo  the  dear  home-voices 
From  lips  of  love  no  more. 

The  sun  descends  —  in  the  darkness 
The  night-wind,  cold  and  wild, 

Sweeps  over  the  gleaming  grave-stones 
Of  father  and  mother  and  child. 


THE    CONTINENTS. 

I  had  a  vision  in  that  solemn  hour, 

Last  of  the  year  sublime, 
Whose  wave  sweeps  downward,  with  its  dying  power 

Rippling  the  shores  of  Time  ! 
On  the  bleak  margin  of  that  hoary  sea 

My  spirit  stood  alone, 
Watching  the  gleams  of  phantom  History 

Which  through  the  darkness  shone  : 

Then  when  the  bell  of  midnight,  ghostly  hands 

Tolled  for  the  dead  year's  doom, 
I  saw  the  spirits  of  Earth's  ancient  lands 

Stand  up  amid  the  gloom  ! 
The  crowned  deities,  whose  reign  began 

In  the  forgotten  Past, 
When  first  the  glad  world  gave  to  sovereign  Man 

Her  empires  green  and  vast ! 


THE     CONTINENTS.  133 

First  queenly  Asia,  from  the  fallen  thrones 

Of  twice  three  thousand  years. 
Came  with  the  wo  a  grieving  goddess  owns, 

Who  longs  for  mortal  tears. 
The  dust  of  ruin  to  her  mantle  clung, 

And  dimmed  her  crown  of  gold, 
While  the  majestic  sorrows  of  her  tongue 

From  Tyre  to  Indus  rolled  : 

"  Mourn  with  me,  sisters,  in  my  realm  of  wo, 

Whose  only  glory  streams 
From  its  lost  childhood,  like  the  arctic  glow 

Which  sunless  Winter  dreams  ! 
In  the  red  desert  moulders  Babylon, 

And  the  wild  serpent's  hiss 
Echoes  in  Petra's  palaces  of  stone 

And  waste  Persepolis  ! 

Gone  are  the  deities  who  ruled  enshrined 

In  Elephanta's  caves, 
And  Brahma's  wailings  fill  the  odorous  wind 

That  stirs  Amboyna's  waves  ! 
The  ancient  gods  amid  their  temples  fall, 

And  shapes  of  some  near  doom, 
Trembling  and  waving  on  the  Future's  wail, 

More  fearful  make  my  gloom  !" 


134  THE     CONTINENTS. 

Then  from  her  seat,  amid  the  palms  embowered 

That  shade  the  Lion-land, 
Swart  Africa  in  dusky  aspect  towered  — 

The  fetters  on  her  hand  ! 
Backward  she  saw,  from  out  her  drear  eclipse, 

The  mighty  Theban  years, 
And  the  deep  anguish  of  her  mournful  lips 

Interpreted  her  tears. 

"  Wo  for  my  children,  whom  your  gyves  have  bound 

Through  centuries  of  toil ; 
The  bitter  wailings  of  whose  bondage  sound 

From  many  a  stranger-soil ! 
Leave  me  but  free,  though  the  eternal  sand 

Be  all  my  kingdom  now  — 
Though  the  rude  splendors  of  barbaric  land 

But  mock  my  crownless  brow  !" 

There  was  a  sound,  like  sudden  trumpets  blown, 

A  ringing,  as  of  arms, 
When  Europe  rose,  a  stately  Amazon, 

Stern  in  her  mailed  charms. 
She  brooded  long  beneath  the  weary  bars 

That  chafed  her  soul  of  flame, 
And  like  a  seer,  who  reads  the  awful  stars, 

Her  words  prophetic  came  : 


THE      CONTINENTS.  135 

"  I  hear  new  sounds  along  the  ancient  shore. 

Whose  dull  old  monotone 
Of  tides,  that  broke  on  many  a  system  hoar, 

Wailed  through  the  ages  lone  ! 
I  see  a  gleaming,  like  the  crimson  morn 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky, 
And  warning  throes,  my  bosom  long  has  borne, 

Proclaim  the  struggle  nigh  !" 

O  radiant-browed,  the  latest  born  of  Time  ! 

How  waned  thy  sisters  old 
Before  the  splendors  of  thine  eye  sublime, 

And  mien,  erect  and  bold  ! 
Pure,  as  the  winds  of  thine  own  forests  are, 

Thy  brow  beamed  lofty  cheer, 
And  Day's  bright  oriflamme,  the  Morning  Star, 

Flashed  on  thy  lifted  spear. 

"  I  bear  no  weight,"  so  rang  thy  jubilant  tones, 

"  Of  memories  weird  and  vast  — 
No  crushing  heritage  of  iron  thrones, 

Bequeathed  by  some  dead  Past ; 
But  mighty  hopes  that  learned  to  tower  and  soar 

From  my  own  peaks  of  snow  — 
Whose  prophecies  in  wave  and  woodland  roar, 

When  the  free  tempests  blow  ! 


136  THE     CONTINENTS. 

"  Like  spectral  lamps,  that  burn  before  a  tomb, 

The  ancient  lights  expire  ; 
I  wave  a  torch,  that  floods  the  lessening  gloom 

With  everlasting  fire  ! 
Crowned  with  my  constellated  stars.  I  stand 

Beside  the  foaming  sea, 
And  from  the  Future,  with  a  victor's  hand 

Claim  empire  for  the  Free  !" 


THE    MOUNTAINS. 

O  deep,  exulting  freedom  of  the  hills  ! 

O  summits  vast,  that  to  the  climbing  view 

In  naked  glory  stand  against  the  blue  ! 
O  cold  and  buoyant  air,  whose  crystal  fills 
Heaven's  amethystine  bowl !  O  speeding  streams, 

That  foam  and  thunder  from  the  cliffs  below  ! 

O  slippery  brinks  and  solitudes  of  snow 
And  granite  bleakness,  where  the  vulture  screams  ! 

0  stormy  pines,  that  wrestle  with  the  breath 
Of  the  young  tempest,  sharp  and  icy  horns 
And  hoary  glaciers,  sparkling  in  the  morns, 

And  broad,  dim  wonders  of  the  world  beneath  ! 

1  summon  ye,  and  'mid  the  glare  which  fills 
The  noisy  mart,  my  spirit  walks  the  hills  ! 


FREEDOM. 

Is  there  no  haven,  where  the  heart  may  rest 
In  the  warm  folding  of  its  love  and  truth  ? 
No  prairie  freedom,  where  the  steed  of  Youth 

Careers  at  will,  by  Life's  strong  curb  unprest, 

Nor  spurred  to  foam  by  hot  Necessity  ? 
Dare  the  great  soul  a  lavish  largess  take 
Of  Being,  and  its  own  brave  journey  make 

O'er  grandest  hills  and  by  the  loudest  sea  ? 

Alas  !  a  cruel  hand  is  at  the  rein, 

And  the  fair  heights  whose  summits  lie  so  near 
In  the  thick  dust  of  travel  disappear, 

And  the  fierce  spirit  chafes  its  curb  of  pain  ; — 

Yet,  having  thee,  all  this  the  heart  may  dare. 

In  the  unbounded  freedom  of  Love's  air. 


LIFE. 

0  Life  !  O  Life  !  art  thou  a  mocking-  cheat. 
That,  with  thy  flush  and  fervor  in  my  blood, 
Teachest  my  heart  a  high,  heroic  mood 

And  passion-joy  in  all  things  fair  and  fleet? 

1  know  the  trumpet-winds  will  join  no  more 

With  the  high  stars  and  billowed  sea,  to  bring 
A  prouder  beat  to  my  soul;s  mounting  wing  — 
That  when  a  few  warm  summers  shall  be  o'er 
And  thy  last  vintage  pours  its  scanty  wine, 
All  these  quick  flames  will  die  in  ashes  low, 
The  leaden  pulse  forget  its  leaping  flow, 
And  faded  lie  the  flowers  of  Love  divine  : 
When  these,  thy  bounties,  fail  to  warm  my  breath, 
Leave  me,  false  Life,  and  send  thy  brother,  Death ! 


EVIL. 

0  Power  of  Evil,  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
What  if  I  shudder  with  a  freezing  dread, 
When,  heralded  by  no  far-coming  tread, 

1  feel  thy  sudden  shadow  on  my  heart? 
What  if  my  being,  with  a  shrinking  start, 

Cries  through  the  darkness,  when  thy  mocking  laugh 
Readest  each  broken  Hope's  sad  epitaph  ? 
Though  in  their  ruin  thou  hast  borne  thy  part, 
They  slumber  yet  in  consecrated  ground, 
Watered  by  tears  my  better  angel  sheds, 
And  when  my  soul  beneath  their  cypress  treads, 
Deem  not  thy  fierce,  dark  whispers  there  may  sound  : 
The  Good  which  blessed  me,  in  the  very  grave 
Dug  by  thy  hands,  is  mighty  still  to  save  ! 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    MIRROR.* 

Where  the  orange  branches  mingled 

On  the  sunny  garden-side, 
In  a  rare  and  rich  pavilion 
Sat  the  beautiful  Sicilian — ■ 
Sat  the  Count  Alberto's  bride, 
Musing  sadly  on  his  absence,  in  the  balmy  evening-tide. 

She  had  grown,  in  soul  and  beauty, 

Like  her  own  delicious  clime  — 
With  the  warmth  and  radiance  showered 
On  its  gardens,  citron-bowered, 

And  its  winds  that  woo  in  rhyme  : 
With  its  fiery  tropic  fervors,  and  its  Etna-throes  sublime ! 

Near  her  stood  the  fair  Bianca, 

Once  a  shepherd's  humble  child, 
Who  with  tender  hand  was  twining 
Through  her  tresses,  raven-shining, 


142       THE   DEMON   OF  THE   MIRROR. 

Pearls  of  lustre  pure  and  mild  ; 
And  the  Lady  in  the  mirror  saw  their  braided  gleam,  and 
smiled. 

Falling  over  brow  and  bosom, 

Swept  her  dark  and  glossy  hair ; 
And  the  flash  on  Etna  faded, 
As  Bianca  slowly  braided 
With  her  fingers  small  and  fair, 
While  a  deeper  shadow  gathered  o'er  the  chamber's  scent- 
ed air. 

On  the  jeweled  mirror  gazing, 

Spake  the  Lady  not  a  word, 
When,  within  its  picture  certain, 
Slowly  moved  the  silken  curtain, 

Though  the  breezes  had  not  stirred, 
And  its  faintly  falling  rustle  on  the  marble  was  unheard. 

Breathless,  o'er  her  tender  musing 

Came  a  strange  and  sudden  fear ; 
With  a  nameless,  chill  foreboding, 
All  her  fiery  spirit  goading, 

Listened  she  with  straining  ear ; 
Through  the  dusky  laurel  foliage,  all  was  silent,  far  and 
near ! 


THE      DEMON      OF      THE      MIRROR.  143 

Not  a  stealthy  footfall  sounded 

On  the  tesselated  floor  ; 
Yet  she  saw,  with  secret  terror, 
Count  Alberto,  in  the  mirror, 
Stealing  through  the  curtained  door, 
Like  a  fearful,  shadowy  spirit,  whom  a  curse  is  hanging 


What  !  so  soon  from  far  Palermo  ? 

Has  he  left  the  feast  of  pride  — 
Has  he  left  the  knightly  tourney 
For  the  happy  homeward  journey 

And  the  greeting  of  his  bride? 
Coldly,  darkly,  in  her  bosom,  the  upspringing  rapture  died  ! 

With  a  glance  of  tender  meaning 

On  the  maid  he  softly  smiled, 
And  the  answering  smile,  and  token 
In  her  glowing  blushes  spoken, 

Well  betrayed  the    shepherd's  child  : 
To  her  gaze,  within  the  mirror,  stood  that  picture  dim  and 
wild  I 


Moved  again  the  silken  curtain, 
As  he  passed  without  a  sound  ; 


144  THE      DEMON      OF      THE      MIRROR. 

Then  the  sunset's  fading  ember 
Died  within  the  lonely  chamber, 
And  the  darkness  gathered  round, 
While  in  passion's  fierce  delirium  was  the  Lady's  bosom 
bound. 


Threat'ning  shadows  seemed  to  gather 

In  the  twilight  of  the  room, 
And  the  thoughts,  vibrating  changeful 
Through  her  spirit,  grew  revengeful 
With  their  whisperings  of  doom  : 
Starting  suddenly,  she  vanished  far   amid  the  deep'ning 
gloom. 


In  the  stillness  of  the  forest 

Falls  a  timid,  trembling  gleam, 
With  a  ruby  radiance  sparkling 
On  the  rill  that  ripples  darkling 

Through  the  thicket,  like  a  dream  : 
'Tis  from  out  the  secret  chamber,  where  are  met  the  Holy 
Vehm  !3 

Wizard  rocks  around  the  entrance 
Dark  and  grim,  like  sentries,  stand  ; 


THE      DEMON      OF      THE     MIRROR.  145 

And  within  the  ghostly  grotto 
Sits  the  gloomy  Baron  Otto, 
Chieftain  of  the  dreaded  band, 
Who  in  darkness  and  in  secret  ruled  Sicilia's  sunny  land. 

As  in  sable  vestments  shrouded 

Sat  the  ministers  of  doom, 
Came  a  step  by  terror  fleetened, 
And  the  dank,  foul  air  was  sweetened 

With  the  orange-buds'  perfume, 
And  the  starry  eyes  of  jewels  shone  amid  the  sullen  gloom. 

Then  uprose  the  gloomy  Otto  — 

Sternly  wrinkled  was  his  brow  ; 
"  Why  this  sudden,  strange  intrusion 
On  the  holy  Vehm's  seclusion  ? 
Why  thus  madly  contest  thou, 
Noble  Lady,  claiming  vengeance  from  the  Brothers  of  the 
Vow  ?" 

"  There  is  one  among  your  Order 

Whom  I  dare  to  sue  for  aid  : 
Will  a  brother's  dagger  falter, 
When  the  bridegroom  from  the  altar 
Hath  his  bosom's  vow  betrayed, 
And  the   princely  bride  is  slighted  for  a  low-born  peasant 
maid?" 

7 


146  THE      DEMON      OF      THE      MIRROR. 

Straight  the  summoned  one  departed 

Out  into  the  starry  air  ; 
Cold  the  silence  seemed,  and  dreary, 
And  the  moments  grew  more  weary, 
While  the  Lady  waited  there 
With  a  deep,  uncertain   anguish,  which  her  spirit  scarce 
could  bear. 

Mingled  thoughts  of  love  and  vengeance 

Madly  battled  in  her  brain  ; 
All  her  bosom's  passionate  feeling 
Struggled  with  the  dread  revealing, 
Till  her  eyes  o'ergushed  in  rain  — 
Then  anon  they  flashed  and  kindled,  and  her  soul  grew 
stern  again  ! 

Once  a  sweet  and  happy  vision 

Nigh  her  fiery  will  had  won  — 
When  the  silver  lamp  of  Hesper 
Twinkled  through  the  silent  vesper, 
And  their  bosoms  beat  as  one, 
Thrilling  o'er  with  too  much  fervor,  like  a  blossom  in  the 
sun. 

Olden  worlds  in  music  echoed 

Through  her  heart's  forsaken  bowers  ; 


THE      DEMON      OF      THE      MIRROR.  147 

But  its  buds  of  love  were  rifled, 
And  the  spirit-voice  was  stifled, 
Which  would  tell  of  tender  hours  ; 
Nevermore  might  second   sunshine  bid  re-bloom  its  per- 
ished flowers  ! 

Still  that  dark  foreboding  lingered 

Over  all  her  pride  and  hate, 
Like  a  stifling  mist,  that  ever 
Hangs  above  a  burning  river 

With  its  dull  and  stagnant  weight : 
Slowly  up  the  spectral  Future  crept  the  shadows  of  her 
fate. 

Now  the  eastern  stars  had  mounted, 
And  the  midnight  watch  was  o'er, 
When  her  long  suspense  was  broken 
By  a  hasty  watchword  spoken, 
And  a  dark  form  passed  the  door. 
Blood  was  on  his  golden  scabbard,  and  the  sable  robe  he 
wore. 

"  By  this  blade,  most  noble  Lady, 

Have  I  done  thy  will  aright  !" 
Then,  upstarting  from  her  languor, 
Cried  she,  in  returning  anger  : 


148        THE   DEMON   OF   THE   MIRROR. 

"  Where  reposed  the  trait'rous  knight? 
Didst  thou  tear  him  from  her  clasping —  strike  him  down 
before  her  sight?" 

"  Nay,  not  so  ;   in  bright  Palermo. 

Where  the  tourney's  torches  shine  — 
In  the  gardens  of  the  palace, 
Did  the  green  earth,  from  its  chalice 
Drink  his  bosom's  brightest  wine, 
And  the  latest  name  that  faltered  on  his  dying   lips,  was 
thine!" 

With  a  scream,  as  agonizing 

In  its  horror  and  despair, 
As  if  life's  last  hold  were  started, 
Ere  the  soul  in  torture  parted, 

Stood  she,  pale  and  shuddering  there. 
With  her  face  of  marble  lifted  in  the  cavern's  noisome  air. 

"  God  of  Heaven  !  that  fearful  image, 

On' the  mirror's  surface  thrown  ! 
Not  Alberto,  but  a  demon, 
Looked  on  her  as  on  a  leman, 
And  the  guilt  is  mine  alone  ! 
Now  that  demon-shadow  haunts  me,  and  its  curse  is  made 
my  own ! 


THE      DEMON     OF     THE     MIRROR.  149 

"  See  !  its  dead,  cold  eyes,  are  glaring 

Through  the  darkness,  steadily  ; 
And  it  holds  a  cloudy  mirror, 
Imaging  that  scene  of  terror, 

Which  was  bloody  death  to  thee  ! 
Mocking  now  thy  noble   features,  turns  its  fearful  gaze  on 
me  ! 

"And  I  see,  beneath  their  seeming, 

How  the  demon  features  glow  ! 
Ghastly  shadows  rise  before  me, 
And  the  darkness  gathers  o'er  me, 
With  its  never-ending  wo  — 
Now  I  feel,  avenging  spirits  !  how  your  spells  of  madness 
grow  !" 

With  a  shriek,  prolonged  and  painful, 

Through  the  wood  she  fled  afar, 
Where  the  air  was  awed  and  fearful, 
And  between  the  boughs  the  tearful 

Shining  of  a  dewy  star 
Pierced  alone  the  solid  darkness  which  enclosed  her  as  a  bar. 

Night  by  night,  in  gloom  and  terror, 
From  the  crag  and  from  the  glen 
Came  those  cries,  the  quiet  breaking, 
Till  the  shepherd  dogs,  awaking, 


150  THE     DEMON      OF      THE      MIRROR. 

Bayed  in  loud  and  mournful  pain, 
And  the  vintager,  benighted,  trembled  on  the  distant  plain. 

Years  went  by,  and  stranger  footsteps 

Rang  in  castle,  bower  and  hall : 
Yet  the  shrieks,  at  midnight  ringing, 
Spoke  the  curse  upon  it  clinging, 

And  they  left  it  to  its  fall, 
And  an  utter  desolation  slowly  settled  over  all. 

Still,  when  o'er  the  brow  of  Etna 

Livid  shades  begin  to  roll, 
Tell  the  simple  herdsman,  daunted 
By  the  twilight,  terror-haunted, 
How  she  felt  the  fiend's  control, 
And  they  sign  the  cross  in  saying  — "  God  in  mercy  keep 
her  soul  !?1 

1847. 


L'ENVOI. 


I've  passed  the  grim  and  threatening  warders 

That  guard  the  vestibule  of  Song, 
And  traced  the  print  of  bolder  footsteps 

The  lengthened  corridors  along  ; 
Where  every  thought  I  strove  to  blazon 

Beside  the  bannered  lays  of  old, 
Was  dim  below  some  bright  escutcheon, 

Or  shaded  by  some  grander  fold. 

I  saw,  in  veiled  and  shadowy  glimpses, 

The  solemn  halls  expand  afar, 
And  through  the  twilight,  half  despairing, 

Looked  trembling  up  to  find  a  star : 
Till,  in  the  rush  of  wings,  awakened 

My  soul  to  utterance  bold  and  strong, 
And  with  impassioned  exultation 

I  reveled  in  the  rage  of  song ! 


152 


Then,  though  the  world  beside,  unheeding, 

Heard  other  voices  than  my  own, 
Thou,  thou  didst  mark  the  broken  music, 

And  cheered  its  proud,  aspiring  tone  : 
Thou  cam'st  in  many  a  glorious  vision 

To  lead  my  eager  spirit  on. 
Thine  eye  the  morning-star  of  promise, 

That  from  heaven's  towers  beheld  the  dawn. 

I  linger  on  the  haunted  threshold 

Where  greater  poets  walk  apart, 
Filling  with  splendor  and  with  freedom 

The  pulses  of  the  world's  cold  heart ;  — 
Their  clarion-voices  bid  my  spirit 

The  opening  gates  behind  me  cast, 
For  Poesy  looks  ever  forward, 

And  never  may  recall  her  Past ! 

Why  fear  to  tread  those  mighty  chambers  ? 

Thou  still  art  near  me,  as  of  old, 
And  half  I  deem  to  hear  thy  welcome, 

When  the  shrined  Presence  I  behold. 
Take,  then,  these  echoes  of  thy  being, 

My  glowing  lips  have  striven  to  frame  ; 
For  when  I  speak  what  thou  inspirest, 

I  know  my  songs  are  nearest  fame. 


NOTES. 


(')  Ha,  Surtur  !  let  me  hear  thy  tramping.— Page  118. 
This  is  the  name  of  the  Scandinavian  God  of  Fire,  and  might  have 
been  appropriately  applied  to  a  spirited  steed.  Skuld,  mentioned  in  the 
seventh  stanza,  was  the  Nome  —  or  Fate  —  of  the  Future,  and  Freya 
the  Northern  Goddess  of  Love.  The  Gjallarhorn  was  supposed  to  be 
blown  by  the  sentinels  of  the  rainbow— in  Northern  Mythology  the  bridge 
of  the  Gods — whenever  the  divinities  of  the  Walhalla  passed  over  its 
arch. 

(2)    The  Demon  of  the  Mirror. —Page  141. 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  a  ballad  which  appears  in  a  volume  of 
modern  Sicilian  poetry,  published  at  Naples  in  1845.  The  author,  Anto- 
nio Bisazza,  is  quite  young,  and  unknown  out  of  Italy.  The  plot  of  the 
story  has  been  materially  changed  in  the  present  poem,  and  the  language 
bears  no  resemblance  to  the  Italian.  For  the  apparition  in  the  mirror, 
however,  from  which  the  whole  story  grew,  I  freely  acknowledge  my 
indebtedness  to  the  young  Sicilian  poet. 

(3)  'Tis  from  out   the  secret  chamber,  where   are  met   the   Holy  Vehm  ! — 

Page  144. 

I  am  aware  that  the  name  of  the  Holy  Vehm  —  that  dreaded  Order  of 
the  Middle  Ages  —  belongs  properly  to  Germany  ;  but  as  branches  of  it 
were  known  to  exist  in  Italy  and  Sicily,  I  have  thought  best  to  retain  the 
title.  The  abject  obedience  to  its  laws,  imposed  by  this  Order  on  its  mem- 
bers, made  it  one  of  the  most  powerful,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
dreaded  body,  which  sprang  from  conditions  of  society  during  that  period. 


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